


Hammer & Nails

by CircuitSaloon



Series: Hammer & Nails [1]
Category: The Transformers (IDW Generation One)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Blood, Brothels, Drama, Dubious Consent, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Found Family, Gen, Gun Violence, Implied Relationships, Implied Sexual Content, Intoxication, Medical Procedures, Mild Gore, Mutual Pining, Recreational Drug Use, Slice of Life, Suicide, Unrequited Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-19
Updated: 2021-01-05
Packaged: 2021-03-09 23:28:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 18
Words: 48,568
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27634100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/CircuitSaloon/pseuds/CircuitSaloon
Summary: As the war between the Autobots and the Decepticons continues on, neutrals aboard the Satellite Space Station live their lives in peace.But peace never lasts forever, and sometimes you’re dragged into the chaos whether you realize it or not.
Series: Hammer & Nails [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2020549
Comments: 4
Kudos: 7





	1. Counterfeit

**Author's Note:**

> This series is my passion project. The characters and their story come from my heart.
> 
> Additionally, I'd like to thank all the people who have supported me from the very beginning, those who gave me the courage to begin writing this in the first place. 
> 
> You know who you are, and I will never forget you.

Far away from the war torn planet of Cybertron, there is the Satellite Space Station. It, like the other space stations that decorated various points in the cosmos, harbor the Cybertronians that chose not to pick a side. They remain neutral for their own reasons.

The neutrals on this particular space station come in all shapes, sizes, and transformations. There are two wheelers, four wheelers, various jets, non-vehicle mechs, power cells…

...And one monoformer.

His name is Counterfeit.

Despite the odds he faced as a monoformer, Counterfeit always had a smile on that generic looking face of his. No matter how he was feeling, no matter how he was looked at or treated or talked to, he always tried to give a smile. 

He strived every day to be a better mech. However, striving to be a better person doesn’t mean you’re without your own personal set of flaws.

But despite his flaws, he was still able to find acceptance.

* * *

The wine colored mech walked along the metal sidewalk, watching as others drove or flew past him. It was in these moments between trips between the Circuit Saloon and Shortfuse’s Minor Surgery Center that Counterfeit wondered what it was like to have a working t-cog. 

What did it feel like to actually transform? 

Did it hurt? 

Probably not, otherwise everyone would just be screaming or yelling or groaning all the time. 

Did it hurt _sometimes_ then? 

He’d asked Shortfuse about it for the millionth time, but he knew he’d get the same response.

_“It’s like flippin’ a switch inside of yourself. You hear the sound, parts move around, and you’re something different. There’s not that much to it, kid.”_

He laughed, thinking about it.

That was Shortfuse alright. Short, sweet, and to the point, no pun intended.

He was a minibot.

He wasn’t sweet in the conventional sense, though. Shortfuse tended to operate more on the side of tough love. He wasn’t one to beat around the bush about things. He’d tell you how it is whether you like it or not.

But like they say, there’s more to a mech than meets the eye. 

* * *

As the monoformer walked past an alleyway that he had been acquainted with at one point in his life, something caught that eye of his. His optics were drawn to the sight of a mangled mass of grey metal in the shape of a mech huddled close next to the dumpster. 

The same dumpster that he was even more acquainted with.

 _“Oh, gosh. That’s a person…!,”_ he thought.

Counterfeit’s legs acted on their own, and he found himself standing a few feet away from whoever it was that had his knees pressed tightly into their chest. He looked very rough in shape, and the larger mech could see that their left arm was missing.

The sound of someone approaching startled him, and the small mech’s optics met those of a stranger who towered over him with a worried look. 

The grey mech quickly pressed himself hard against the dumpster he sat next to, as if trying to phase through it, but the distance between him and the stranger remained the same.

“Hey, relax! I’m not gonna hurt you,” Counterfeit said, looking into the other’s panicked optics. He raised his hand into a gentle gesture, trying to reassure him that he meant no harm.

The frightened mech kept his guard up, however. 

He had to.

“What’s your name?” Counterfeit asked him. 

“...What’s _yours?_ ” was the reply.

Counterfeit smiled.

“My name is Counterfeit.”

The grey mech looked up at Counterfeit, and into bright blue optical glass that looked friendlier than any that he had seen before. His spark, numb and pained, flickered just a bit, as if to say _‘let’s trust this person.’_

“...Arsenal. My name is Arsenal.”

“Arsenal,” Counterfeit repeated.

Arsenal’s spark flickered again as Counterfeit said his name. His tone was soft and kind, and it took Arsenal’s processor a moment to accept it. For the most part, the only people who said his name were...not very nice people. 

Counterfeit knelt down, shortening the distance between him and Arsenal further. He reached into his subspace and took out a basic medkit.

“I’m no medic, but...um,” Counterfeit began, looking a bit nervous, “I see you’re kinda hurt there...”

Arsenal said nothing, only looked at Counterfeit who looked back at him with genuine care, which was something Arsenal had never received from anyone before.

“Oh,” Arsenal said, relaxing the grip he had on his exposed socket. “I guess I am.”

Opening the box, Counterfeit started taking out a spongy, metal-like material and some adhesive strips.

“May I?”

Slowly, Arsenal brought his hand down and turned his torso towards the bigger mech. He watched as Counterfeit began to gently fill the socket with the material, being careful not to hurt him.

His spark flickered again.

* * *

It didn’t take long before Counterfeit had finished patching up Arsenal. It was not a great job, but it was something. It would be good enough until he could get actual, professional medical care.

Counterfeit stood, towering once again above Arsenal. He leaned down, extended his hand, and smiled.

Arsenal looked up at him, not really knowing what to do.

“I’m trying to help you up,” Counterfeit said, chuckling just a bit.

“Oh.”

The grey mech raised his only arm and clasped his hand into the other’s bigger one. Counterfeit helped pull Arsenal up, being as careful as he could while doing it. Before they both knew it, Arsenal was up on his feet.

“Can you walk?” Counterfeit asked.

“..Yeah.”

“Great!” Counterfeit exclaimed happily. “I’ve got some friends for you to meet. I was on my way to see them, actually. They can probably help you out with your injury better than I can. They’re medics.”

Arsenal only nodded, and began to follow Counterfeit out of the alley.

* * *

Counterfeit led Arsenal down the metal sidewalk towards the lower district of Satellite. He took shorter, slower strides on purpose. There was no telling how much energon Arsenal had lost and he didn’t want to strain him by walking at his normal pace. He turned his helm to look down at the other who was walking by his side.

He was frowning.

Immediately, Counterfeit knew he had to do something to cheer this guy up.

“Well, Arnie, it— can I call you Arnie?”

No one had ever asked him that before, so he really wasn’t sure how to respond. It did have a nice ring to it, though, but he wondered if that was because the person who had said it was by far the nicest person he had ever met in his life.

“Uh...sure.”

“Well, Arnie, it’s gonna take a little while before we get to the clinic, so how about some conversation to pass the time?”

Arsenal gave a half smile, not really knowing if he’d be a good person to have a conversation with. The people that he was associated with didn’t talk to him or with him. He was talked _at_ , and had learned that even speaking when spoken to could make things turn ugly.

“...Ok.”

“Great,” Counterfeit beamed. “Mind if I ask you a question?”

Arsenal, clutched at his bandaged arm socket and thought for a moment. He wasn’t comfortable answering any questions if it pertained to why he had a missing limb. But, feeling the warmth of Counterfeit’s demeanor, he was willing to chit chat for however long it took to get to where he was headed.

Counterfeit was too excited to wait for a reply.

“What does it feel like to transform?”


	2. Triage

From the outside, the Minor Surgery Center of Lower Satellite looked a bit rundown. It needed a good cleaning, new façade panels, and better signage. But in its defense, the Satellite itself wasn’t in the best condition to begin with. All major improvements being made to it while the war progressed was being focused primarily on the upper levels of the space station.

“It looks better on the inside,” Counterfeit assured his new friend. 

And he was right. It _did_ look better on the inside. 

A _lot_ better.

There was a small lounge area with a mounted holovid, a short reception desk at the front, and one examination room. Next to the room was a corridor leading to the back half of the clinic. It was bright and very clean which, being a medical facility, was a basic requirement.

_“I need a medic!”_ the wine colored mech hollered as he strode inside.

The door of the exam room opened and out came a short, green and dark gold mech with protruding fins along his forearms and legs.

“WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT YELLING IN THE CLINIC?!” the minibot...yelled.

“I’m sorry, Shortfuse,” Counterfeit apologized, “but I’ve got someone who needs to be looked at...”

Shortfuse walked over to the foyer area where the pair had entered and looked up at Counterfeit, then at Arsenal. His angry optics noticed the missing limb and amatuer first aid attempt right away. He turned his rounded helm towards the corridor.

“SURGE, WE’VE GOT COMPANY!”

Out from a corridor came another minibot, who Arsenal assumed must have been Surge. He was a squarish, dark grey mech with protruding kibble on his shoulders. His decorative marks and visor were a deep magenta.

Surge looked at the three as he walked into the foyer. He recognized Shortfused and Counterfeit, but not the third mech.

“Hey, Surge,” Counterfeit said, raising a friendly hand.

“Hey,” the power cell replied, walking into the exam room Shortfuse had just been in.

“Come with me,” Shortfuse said back to Arsenal. His tone was irritated and matched his face well.

It made Arsenal a little uneasy.

But he followed the medic towards the examination room anyway, turning back only to see Counterfeit giving him that same smile again.

* * *

Inside the examination room, Surge had everything laid out on a wheeled caddy; metal mesh bandages, energon enriched antiseptic, and the spare soldering tool that worked about half the time.

“Where’s the _good one?”_ Shortfused asked.

“Where do you _think?”_ Surge replied with a twinge of sarcasm in his vocalizer. 

Shortfuse relayed a gruff sigh of frustration and shook his head. 

_Not again._

Not with the _medical equipment._

“Alright, have a seat,” the mini medic ordered, sounding irritated still. 

Arsenal complied and sat down on the low rising bench, his blue optics scanning the room to pick up as many details as he could. A strange looking machine here, and some medical object there. 

It was much nicer and professional looking than _his_ makeshift medbay.

His sightseeing stopped as he felt fingers peel off the adhesive Counterfeit had placed over his socket. He watched as Surge pulled out the energon covered metal gauze that had been placed in there. The power cell set the used materials in a tray to be disposed of later. Arsenal winced a bit as he felt a digit thumb over the pinched metal that was once his left arm and grazed over exposed wiring.

_“Well?”_ Shortfuse asked the other, washing his servos in an antiseptic rinse.

“Looks like it was torn off.”

“Hm. How can you tell?”

“The ends of the fuel tubes and surrounding metal are jagged and uneven. Not something that would happen if it was removed surgically.”

“So what should you do about it?” Shortfuse quizzed as he began to dry his hands with a rag. 

Surge shot the warhead a glance. What should _he_ do about it? Was he implying that he was going to let Surge do this _on his own?_ For the _first time_ since he started working under him as a medic in training? 

According to the look on Shortfuse’s face that was exactly what he was implying. 

Surge did his best not to show the swell of pride that was spilling out of his spark, but he was so easy to read that his efforts didn’t make much of a difference.

_“Well?”_ the doctor asked more sterly.

Surge thought for a few nanokliks before turning back to Shortfuse, making sure he was certain with his answer. 

“I’m going to reestablish the energon circulation by replacing the missing links with synthetic tubing, and then cover the area with metal-fiber bandages that would encourage nanite recovery.”

“Alright then. You know where the tubes are.” His arms were crossed and he nodded towards the door. “Go get ‘em.” 

Surge left with the smallest yet most noticeable smile as he headed towards the back where the storage room was. This was his chance. The first one he’d ever been given. Shortfuse tended to take matters into his own hands with Surge by his side as a junior medic. Basically a glorified assistant, if he was being honest.

But whatever the reason was that Sortfuse was letting him take charge, he was determined not to screw it up.

* * *

  
  


“He forgot the energon iv,” Shortfuse said to Arsenal, who had chosen to remain quiet. 

He was grateful that he was getting the treatment he needed, but his mind was elsewhere, clouded with thoughts of where he was and where he never wanted to be again.

Shorfuse set up the drip with movements so smooth Arsenal could have sworn the doctor could do it in his sleep cycle. Had he actually said this aloud the other would have agreed. At least in a soft-sparked, joking sort of way. Shortfuse was confident in his abilities in mechanical medicine, but deep down he knew he was far from being as skilled or as accurate as the one who taught him.

_ Oh, how he missed her. _

“I’m surprised to see a mech like you here on the Satellite.” 

Arsenal’s attention was immediately grabbed by the words spoken into the atmosphere of the sterile room. His tank dropped in it’s suspension cables and his spark pulsed with anxiousness.

“W...What do you mean...?” he asked, debating on whether or not he would regret asking.

“I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he began, securing the energon line of the iv into Arsenal’s wrist intake, “but this is a neutral based space station. We’re in the middle of a war and I’m setting up and iv for—”

Arsenal’s optics widened in fear as he heard the minibot call him what he was. Shortfuse was onto him. He knew what he was just by looking at him, and Arsenal could feel the panic rising within his grey, slender frame.

“I’m ex-military,” Shortfuse continued, “I’ve seen all kinds of mechs during wartime and I can’t think of any Autobot or Decepticon, or any ranking officer for that matter, that’d let you slip by and go awol.”

Yep, it was time to go. 

As soon as he was finished, Arsenal was going to find somewhere to hide. Maybe see if he could catch a ride to somewhere as far from Cybertronian civilization as possible.

“Relax, son. I’m not going to say anything to anyone.” 

This was obviously meant to put the young mech at ease, but it had little effect. The nuke took a clean cloth and doused it with some antiseptic solvent and began to prep the area before Surge returned. 

He started to chuckle. 

“Hell, even if you _had_ a faction badge, I’d still make sure you got looked at before you left.”

This confused Arsenal. From what he understood, neutrals weren’t fond of one side or another in some varying degree. 

“...Why’s that?”

“Because,” Shortfuse began, tossing the used cloth into a metal hamper, “that knucklehead out there brought you here.”

“...Counterfeit?”

“That’s right,” the medic nodded. “He’s not the brightest sun in the galaxy but his spark is bright enough. I found him sitting next to a dumpster in some alleyway, looking as lost and helpless as anyone. I brought him here and patched him up. Told him that if he found anyone that needed help to bring ‘em back to the clinic.”

Suddenly, Surge came back into the room with an irritated expression, medical grade tubing in hand.

“What’s wrong?” Shortfuse asked. 

Surge set the synthetic tubes down on the caddy and shot his mentor the same irritated look.

_ “That fake cop is back again.” _

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That 'fake cop' is the reason I wake up in the morning.


	3. Unwarranted

Counterfeit looked down at the finial-helmed bot that glared at him. This wasn’t the first time that he had been given that same look, but it made him feel awful each and every time. He didn’t mean any harm, but the _'Autobot'_ didn’t care.

But Shortfuse did.

“WHAT DID I SAY ABOUT COMING BACK HERE?!” Shortfuse shouted, storming back into the foyer. 

The motorcycle folded his arms.

“And what did I say about keeping that _criminal_ in check?”

Shortfuse scoffed. 

“He’s NOT a criminal. Does he look like a criminal to you?!”

Crowbar looked back at Counterfeit who was standing awkwardly to the side, avoiding optic contact like it was the rust plague. 

He looked back at the minibot.

“What he looks like doesn’t matter. He’s a repeat offender of larceny. If he’s not stopped now he’ll only continue to become a menace to society.”

“Oh, for frag’s sake, he’s got A MENTAL DISORDER...!”

Counterfeit didn’t like this. He didn’t like being the center of attention like this. He didn’t like the yelling, even though he knew Shortfuse couldn’t help it at times. He especially didn’t like being reminded of his kleptomania. He was reminded every day by his own two hands, and the anxious thoughts that haunted them.

It started out only happening every once in a while with small things, things people wouldn’t miss. But on those particularly hard days when he was hardest on himself, the compulsions were greater, and the guilt hung over him like the blade of a guillotine.

His tell was obvious. That same smile he’d always give, but with the optics of a mech who knew he had done something wrong. A silent confession he wore on his faceplate.

Thankfully, Shortfuse was an understanding mech. 

He was Counterfeit’s trusted confidant.

“That sounds like an excuse,” the _‘cop’_ stated.

Shortfuse sighed and rubbed the space between his optics. 

“Counterfeit, whatever you took just give it back...”

The tall mech reached into his subspace and pulled out an unofficial, handmade Autobot faction badge. 

He leaned down and handed the badge back to Crowbar, who snatched it into his grasp.

“I’m sorry...” he apologized, trying not to look into Crowbar’s angry optics.

“Yeah, well,” Crowbar began, “‘sorry’ doesn’t cut it this time.” He turned back towards Shortfuse as he affixed the red face of Primus onto his abdomen. “I’m here to arrest him.”

“YOU’RE _WHAT?!”_

* * *

“A _fake_ cop?” Arsenal asked.

Surge let out a short laugh. 

“Yeah. He’s just some Autobot wannabe with a weird justice complex. Word on the street is he flunked out of the Autobot Academy back on Cybertron and makes it everyone else’s problem.”

“Oh.”

There was mostly silence as the powercell worked on his patient. It was a simple procedure to open the ends and reconnect the fuel lines that protruded from the gap where his arm had been, but welding the replacement tubing would take a little more time. Mostly because it was Surge’s first time doing something this “complicated” on his own. Shortfuse wasn’t even in the room to supervise. 

This was it. 

This was his moment to prove that he had what it took to be a medic.

“I’m Surge, by the way. Didn’t really get a chance to introduce myself.” 

“...I’m Arsenal.” 

Trying not to wince as Surge welded the metal tubes into his circulatory structure was a challenge. His servos were a little shaky. He was nervous, obviously.

“Sorry,” Surge stammered, watching Arsenal wince again. 

_“Good job, Surge,”_ he thought to himself. _“Your first solo act and you’re already fragging it up.”_

“So...how long have you been working as a medic?” Arsenal asked.

He figured that some light conversation would help him to ease up on the shoddy welder. Unfortunately, the question was a bit loaded, and caused Surge to frown a bit. But any good doctor knows not to do that in front of a patient, so he tried to look as focused on his job as best he could.

“For a while now,” he said. It certainly had been a while since the incident, but the wounds, at times, were still as fresh as the day they came to be. “What about you?” he asked, changing the subject. “What do you do for a living?”

Arsenal cursed himself as he scrounged his mental processors for a decent answer. He had to come up with something, something that didn’t remind him of his past or the people who were there.

“I’m...looking for a new job.”

* * *

Shortfuse starred Crowbar down with his red optics glowing like the reflection of that faction badge.

 _“I said_ I’m here to arrest him.”

The nuclear missile’s fuel boiled inside of his tank. His energon pressure was skyrocketing by the second. And that was _before_ Crowbar had the audacious bearings to come into his clinic and pull this kind of stunt. But the wheels of thought began to turn inside his domed head and he realized something. So he laughed, causing the other two mechs to look at each other in confusion.

“I don’t think this is funny, Shortfuse...” Counterfeit said, almost a whisper.

“Where’s your warrant?” the minibot asked with a smug look.

Crowbar said not a word. The heat rising into his face plates said enough for him.

“You don’t have one, _do you?”_

The motorcycle swallowed hard. He did not have a warrant of any kind on him.

“N-No, but I have the authority to—!!”

“YOU HAVE THE AUTHORITY TO GET THE HELL OUT OF MY CLINIC IS WHAT YOU HAVE,” Shortfuse declared. “DOES AIRSTRIKE KNOW YOU’RE HERE?!”

Crowbar, again, did not respond. Instead, he turned to Counterfeit with an irritated, almost defeated look. 

“Stop taking things that aren’t yours..! It’s not right..!” he spat before leaving. 

Shortfuse shook his head as the metal door slid shut.

“What a great waste of my time! Ah, well. Better go check on Surge and see how he’s doing.”

As the doctor headed towards the exam room, he was stopped in his tracks by the sound of Counterfeit’s voice.

“Hey, Shortfuse...?”

Shortfuse looked back to see the taller mech with an almost sad look about him.

“...Am I a bad person?”

Shortfuse’s expression softened a bit.

“No, son. No, you’re not.”

_"You’re far from it."_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As President of the Crowbar Fanclub, I'd like to thank myself for creating the perfect Transformer.


	4. Unexpected Turns

Crowbar transformed and rolled out onto the wide, metal paving. He headed towards the middle district of the Satellite where the security office was located. He revved himself out of spite for everyone at that clinic. He was only doing what any law abiding, justice enforcing officer would do. 

Ok, so maybe the whole _kleptomania thing_ changed the scenario a bit, but stealing was still unlawful.

* * *

The middle district was much more cramped than the lower and upper sections. It was here that the vast majority of the population lived. It was a collection of housing units, commercial buildings, and the like. It was where many aboard the space station called home. A home away from their beloved Cybertron.

As he drove to his workplace, Crowbar thought of these things: where he was now and where he used to be, what he was and what he wanted to be.

Crowbar of Iacon had one dream. He wanted to be an Autobot. He wanted to join their ranks and be a hero, just like all the other big shots and well-known names. He wanted to be looked upon as someone worthy of respect, someone who put fear in the sparks of every wrongdoer who threatened the peace of any Cybertronian. So the motorcycle enrolled at the academy, the first stepping stone of achieving his dream.

He was sent home after the first couple of weeks there. He passed all the written exams and verbal quizzes without difficulty, but there’s more to being an autobot than just knowing laws and passing tests. 

His skills in mobility were weak, and his aim virtually nonexistent. He didn't work well under pressure in terms of combat and his responses to high stress related situations were always panic-driven. 

He just wasn’t made to be a cop.

But Crowbar didn’t care. He didn’t care what anyone said or thought about him. In his mind, if he just kept trying, kept trying to prove everyone wrong about himself, that one day the badge he had made himself would become authentic.

During his many shifts as the Security Office’s secretary, he would sit at his cubicle and dream of the day where he would be called “Officer Crowbar,” and be addressed as “sir” and not his given designation. He’d smile as he’d file away reports submitted by the officers under Airstrike’s charge, thinking of that day.

* * *

“Not bad, Surge,” Shortfuse praised. “The weld lines are almost seamless.”

“What can I say? I learned from the best,” the minibot grinned.

“Well, what about you, son?” the medic asked Arsenal. "How’s it feel?”

“It feels good,” he said, looking back and forth between the two.

“Surge, d’ya mind givin’ us some privacy while we iron out the details about payment?”

“Oh. Uh, yeah. Sure.”

* * *

Surge left the room and entered the main lobby where Counterfeit had decided to sit patiently, waiting for his new friend to come out of the examination room.

“How’s he doing?” Counterfeit smiled.

“He’s fine. The procedure went fine,” Surge replied. “Shortfuse said it looked good.”

“I guess I should be calling you _‘doc’_ now, huh?” Counterfeit joked.

“Not anytime soon,” the smaller mech chuckled. Surge came around and sat in the same sitting area and propped his pedes up on the small table at its center. 

* * *

“You got somewhere to stay, son?” Shortfuse asked.

Arsenal hesitated before answering, weighing the pros and cons of being honest with the doctor.

“I...don’t.”

“I see,” the medic hummed.

Shortfuse began to move the wheeled cart out of the way and clean the medical instruments used during Arsenal’s procedure.

“Well, do you want one?”

Arsenal’s optics flickered at the question. He wasn’t used to such blatant hospitality. Part of him wanted to leave. Shortfuse, despite not knowing any details about his situation, already knew too much about him. 

But part of him wanted to stay. 

In the short amount of time that Arsenal had spent with Counterfeit, Shortfuse, and Surge, he felt some semblance of safety. Something that he had been longing for for sometime. Had he finally found a place of peace among this trio of neutrals? His spark wanted to believe so, and that was the part of him that wanted him to stay.

“Do I... _want_ one...?”

“Maybe that’s the wrong way to put it. Do you _need_ a place to stay?” he corrected himself, tapping softly on the sealed plating where an arm should be as if to make an unspoken point.

Arsenal, for most of his life, never was given the opportunity to consider his wants or needs. He only knew the priority of following orders and ignoring his own autonomy. He was trained well in that regard. 

But now that he was on his own, he was able to decide for himself what he would choose to do and with whom. As far as he knew, these people were unlike the ones he had been associated with before, and he was glad to be around them.

* * *

Crowbar transformed back into robot mode and walked into the Security Office. He was late for being early to his shift, which meant he didn’t have enough time to read over a few completed reports that had been submitted from the previous one. 

Oh, well.

The two-wheeler headed straight for his desk and switched on his terminal and clocked in. He sat down on the uncomfortable metal chair that he hated and began his morning routine of checking emails and memos before jumping into the stacks of datapads that had been placed on his desktop in some form of organized disarray. 

_ Gotta love those senior officers. _

After a few minutes of skimming and scanning, one email in particular caught his optic. It was from Airstrike herself, and she wanted to speak with him as soon as possible. Judging by the timestamp, it had been sent earlier that day before he had arrived.

Crowbar sprang out of his chair and straightened his posture, taking determined strides towards Airstrike’s office in the back of the building

_“This is it,”_ he thought. _“Today is the day I get recognized and promoted!”_

* * *

Everyone that walked past him was but a blur as he approached the door to her office.

He knocked, and it opened.  He entered, and it closed behind him. 

And there she was. 

The Chief of Security herself, _Airstrike._

The red jet set down her datapad at the sudden intrusion, then began to take off her spectacles when she fully registered who it was that had come in.

“Crowbar. I’ve been expecting you,” she said solemnly. “Please, have a seat.”

The excited mech did as he was instructed and sat, pin straight. He spark twinkled in his chest cavity with anticipation.

Airstrike interlaced her fingers together and gave the shorter mech a serious look.

“It has come to my attention that you’ve been doing some... _off duty work.”_

Crowbar didn’t answer, but tried to keep his positive attitude. Though, he couldn’t help but feel his excited smile grow into a nervous one.

“A few officers have relayed back to me that you’ve been spotted in several locations where reports have been submitted detailing suspicious or confirmed criminal activity. Is this true?”

“Well, I..”

“That’s a _‘yes’_ or _‘no.’”_

“Y-Yes, ma’am...”

Airstrike sighed. 

“Crowbar, we’ve talked about this.”

The nervous smile faded into a frown as the motorcycle hung his head.

“I know...” he said barely above a whisper.

“There have,” she began again, “also been complaints sent in by some civilians about you harassing them.”

His helm shot up immediately and his mouth opened to protest, but a silencing hand was raised to stop him. The hand then picked up the datapad and, after a bit of scrolling, placed the device back down onto the desk, turned it, and slid it closer to Crowbar. He took it into his hands and began reading the grievances against him. His spark sang a sad song as he read over them.

“These are misunderstandings!” he objected. “I was only trying to help! Trying to...to deter people from doing wrong!”

“Even if that’s the case, you can’t go around threatening citizens' arrests with no authority to do so. For Primus’ sake, _you’re a secretary.”_

“I’ve been trained,” he said sternly. “I went to the academy.”

“Crowbar...”

“I know how to be a cop.”

“No, you _don’t.”_

He clenched his hands in his lap as his spark was consumed by anger and frustration.

“I know about your record at the academy.”

There was a long, awkward silence between the two until there was a quick beep from Airstrike’s audial. She raised her hand and manually accepted the call.

“This is Airstrike, go ahead... That's fine. Page him through.”

Crowbar was unable to hear what exactly the other person on the line was saying, but it was very clear that the person was shouting and very upset for some reason.

“Yes, doctor. I’m handling the situation as we speak... My sincerest apologies to you and your staff... It will not happen again, I assure you... Good day to you as well.”

_“Aw, scrap,”_ he cursed to himself.

The call ended as quickly as it had begun, and the head of security shot Crowbar a very unhappy look.

“Ma’am, let me explain…!”

_ “No, Crowbar.” _

“He stole from me! I couldn’t just sit there and let him walk away! Even if he is a klepto, that doesn’t excuse the fact that—”

_“Wait a second,”_ the seeker interrupted. “Did you say... _klepto?”_

“I was informed that the perp had a mental disorder, so I put two and two together and—”

Airstrike began massaging the space between her optics.

“Are you talking about _Counterfeit_ the _Monoformer?”_

“...I believe that was his name, yes. ...Why?”

The flier sighed again.

“He’s one of the few citizens here on the Satellite that’s been granted amnesty due to his condition.”

_“What!?_ He’s a thief! A criminal! Who would authorize that?!”

_“I did,”_ she emphasized, shutting up the other immediately. “I got tired of the poor spark trying to turn himself in every other week because he took something small and insignificant.”

_Small and insignificant._

Crowbar repeated those words in his head over and over again. His badge was neither of those things. 

Not to him.

“I’m going to be blunt with you, Crowbar,” she began, changing the subject, “your actions outside of this building reflects badly not only on yourself, but this entire precinct. I can’t have you going out acting as if you’ve been deputized, and without warrants, no less. We’re not Autobots and this isn't Cybertron.”

Crowbar remained silent. 

What was he to say? Nothing. There wasn’t anything he could say in defense of himself. Airstrike was now his judge, jury—

“You are being placed on administrative leave.”

— _and executioner._

“B-But Chief!!”

“Clean your workstation and head home, Crowbar. You’ll be contacted when it’s time for you to come back.”

He rose with a pout and proceeded to leave.

“Oh, and Crowbar...”

The two-wheeler turned as the door began to slide open.

“Take off that faction symbol.”

And so he did.

_ Bitterly. _


	5. Special Connections

Among the several places in Lower Satellite, the Circuit Saloon is the most notable. Run by a retired racer named Cassette, the saloon is filled with old trophies, photos, and occasional stories of the racetracks. And it was here that Shortfuse had some business to attend to.

The establishment was filled with it’s regular crowd of tough looking mechs and tired sparks that needed a break from their labors. The warhead strode past tables and booths and headed straight for the bar.

After adjusting himself on one of the bar stools, the green mini gave himself a quick once over in the spare time he had before she’d appear. His frame was perfectly polished and waxed, and a majority of his scratches and dents he’d accumulated over time had been filled in and buffed out as best as he could manage.

He was a medic, not a detailer.

Shortfuse grinned as he watched a powder blue mech carrying a box of glasses emerge from the shadows of the back room. She set the box down on the floor just behind the bar and dusted off her hands. She turned, sensing someone there that hadn’t been before she left. When the ex-racer realized who it was, she returned the grin as she went back to her usual position behind the counter.

_“Hey there, Shorty,”_ she cooed. “Just the regular...or the _other_ regular?” she winked.

The medic reminded himself quickly of his reason for being there before the look in her optics gave him a different one.

“Just the regular, and a little bit of your time,” he replied.

“Time is money, honey,” she said as she turned to the mixing station behind her and began fixing him a glass of the classic pink stuff.

“This won’t take long,” the green mech assured, running his optical scanners along the back of her frame. 

_Primus_ , she was beautiful.

“Well, for _you,”_ she began, setting the drink down in front of him, “take as long as you’d like.” Her optics flashed a pretty blue, and she leaned against the counter in front of him as she spoke. If he rose a bit and leaned forward he could’ve kissed her, but he wasn’t here for that today, despite everything inside of him wanting that to be the case.

“I’ve got another one for ya,” he said, taking a sip. “Someone who needs a place to recharge and maybe a job if you’ve got a spot available.”

The taller mech let out a short laugh.

“Listen, Shorty. What I was able to do with Counterfeit was a one time deal. I don’t have any extra rooms and I’ve got more than enough help around h—”

Her sentence was stopped in its tracks as she raised an optical ridge at the other.

“Is that _scented_ wax?” she asked rhetorically.

He smirked.

“That depends,” he said, leaning in a bit. _“Do you like it?”_

“I think it would smell better in the back,” she opined, motioning to the side with her helm.

“Want to find out?” he flirted back.

So much for staying on track...

* * *

Crowbar entered his apartment with his spark still buzzing with mixed emotions from his exchange with Airstrike. After fixing the pseudo Autobot badge back onto his abdomen, he received a notification from his audial-comm system. Immediately, all negative feelings he had about his job situation evaporated as he accepted the very long distance call.

“Radar! How are you? I’ve missed you!”

The voice on the other line laughed airily.

“Oh, Crowbar! I’ve missed you, too! So very much, sweetspark. I’ve been well, but quite lonely without you...”

The motorcycle meandered towards his sofa and laid comfortably on it as the call with his boyfriend progressed.

“How much longer are you going to be stationed on that asteroid belt? It feels like you’ve been out there forever...”

Radar was silent for a moment, figuring out what words to say.

“I’m not sure, my dear,” he said with an uncertain tone. “There’s talk of expanding the mining operations for more energon.”

_“More_ energon?” Crowbar exclaimed. “We’re a space station, not a _planet.”_

“I know,” Radar agreed, “But I don’t make those decisions.”

“How long are we talking then?”

“Well, Crowbar, that’s really hard to say. With the war going on and our desperation to remain neutral, resources are top priority. If we as a colony, for lack of a better word, don’t fortify our energon supply we’d be subjected to choosing a side for survival and I’m doubtful that anyone affiliated with our temporary home would want that.”

“If push came to shove we could just side with the Autobots,” Crowbar stated boldly.

“Of course,” Radar said, “but again, I wouldn’t be able to make any call on that.”

“But you’re the Satellite’s Head of Communications and Technology! You’d be able to have some kind of a say in a decision like that.”

“Well, it wouldn’t be just me, darling. It would have to be a majority vote between the other council members and myself. Speaking of council members, how’s Airstrike doing?”

For a moment Crowbar didn’t say anything. He didn’t want to think about Airstrike let alone hear her name coming out of his boyfriend’s mouth.

“Crowbar? Are you still there?”

“She’s...fine, I guess,” the two wheeler answered back. “Listen,” he began, changing the subject. The last thing Crowbar wanted was to explain the Radar that he was sent home under administrative leave. “What if,” he continued, “I took some time off to visit you?”

Crowbar smiled as he waited for what he absolutely knew would be a delighted reaction.

“Not that I wouldn’t love to see you, Crowbar, but things are extremely busy here and I’m afraid that if we were to be reunited, I wouldn’t be able to give you the personal time and affection you so desperately deserve.”

Crowbar’s spark sank in it’s chamber. They’d been apart for months, leaving him feeling touch starved and lonely. Radar was the only one that gave him the time of day. He listened to his rants about Autobot this or evil Decepticon that. Radar genuinely liked him, which was more than what he could say about anyone else that had ever been around him.

Crowbar loved Radar, and he missed him terribly.

“I’m sorry, Crowbar...”

“I get it, I understand,” he replied sorrowfully.

“I have to go back to work now, I’ll speak with you again soon.”

“Ok.”

“I love you.”

“I love you, too...”

* * *

When Shortfuse returned to the Clinic, he told Counterfeit to take Arsenal to see Cassette. They left, leaving the two minibots alone together. Surge sat on the couch in the waiting area, feet propped on the table, optics glued to the holovid that hung in the corner. Shortfuse joined him.

“Pedes off the table,” the green mech said as he watched the screen flash an advertisement.

Surge did as he was told, drawing up his arms to fold them across his chest in the process. The power cell clicked his glossa, making the older bot turn his helm.

“Got somethin’ to say?” he asked. 

It was a rhetorical question. The medic knew his junior well enough to know that he was having an attitude over..

“Nope,” the dark grey mech answered back. His tone was sarcastic and angry. “But those paint transfers _might.”_

Shortfuse inspected himself. He had gotten every bit of powder blue off of himself before he came back from the saloon, he had thought. He looked closer at his frame and finally noticed a few splotches on his leg. After he attempted to rub off what he could, he looked back at Surge. The nuke could feel his internal core temperature increase. If he wasn’t careful, he might say something he’d regret.

“Maybe the paint transfers should _mind their own business,”_ he retorted sternly.

“Do you think _Syringe_ would?”

It was more of a bold statement than a question, and it made Shortfuse bite his glossa. It had been a couple million years since the incident. Shortfuse had cried his tears and grieved the loss of his conjux. The grieving period had ended for him some time ago, and he had finally moved on towards the next chapter of his life.

Surge, however, was still hanging onto the prologue.

“Syringe would want me to be happy. And I think Doodad and Gizmo would want the same for you.”

Surge whipped his helm around faster than a turbofox chasing a cosmic rabbit.

_“You wouldn’t know what they’d want for me,”_ he hissed.

“Then maybe you should tell me instead of keeping it bottled up inside like you’ve been doing all these millennia...!”

The power cell said not a word, he only stared back at Shortfuse. He tried to keep up an angry appearance, that emotional wall he had built over time, but the sorrow began welling up in his optics. The medic could see it through the other’s visor, and he softened his expression as best he could because of it. Shortfuse extended his arm and rested his servo on Surge’s shoulder kibble.

“It’s ok to open up, son,” he said, his own vocalizer choking up.

Surge disagreed within himself and rose from the small sofa to go to his room. Shortfuse slumped on the sofa and sighed as the sound of Surge’s pedesteps faded away in the short distance.


	6. A Short Lived Dream

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: This chapter contains content that includes graphic physical and emotional abuse. Please proceed with caution if you are sensitive to these subjects.

“You’re gonna love her, Arnie! She’s so nice.” Counterfeit chirped. “Well, she’s nice to anyone that’s on her good side,” the monoformer clarified.

The little grey mech walked fast to keep up with the larger mech’s excited strides, but listened as the other talked about Cassette and the Circuit Saloon.

Counterfeit was a mech of all trades at the saloon. He took orders, he cleaned, he poured drinks, made attempts at being a handyman, and on occasion, he was the bouncer. Out of all the things he had been hired to do, that last one was what he disliked the most. 

Counterfeit hated confrontation, and like any other person who felt the same, he had his reasons. He didn’t like having to break up fights between drunks and sometimes having to put his hands on a mech just to get them to leave. But it was rare that things got to that point, as anyone who entered the bar knew that they’d have to deal with Cassette if anything _really_ started getting out of hand.

Cassette was a feisty little racecar that was always ready to end a fight, and it was Counterfeit’s job as the bouncer on-call to make sure she stayed where she needed to be, lest the police get notified of a public disturbance. 

_ Again. _

It wasn’t his favorite thing in the world, but if it meant keeping his boss from pulling out her sonic shotgun to _“put someone in their place”_ then he was more than glad to do it, despite how he personally felt.

And Cassette loved Counterfeit, even with his unrelenting gentleness. Everyone did. The regular patrons of the saloon all knew his name and spoke to him whenever they could. It wasn’t too often that anyone could say that they knew a monoformer, and that’s what brought most folks in. What kept them coming back was how attractive he was. The customers tipped him well when he waited on them or bused their tables, some even being bold enough to flirt with the kind spark. The flirting always caught him off guard and made him feel a bit bashful, but it never made his smile waver.

* * *

As soon as the pair entered the bar, all optics zoomed in on the wine colored mech. Faces lit up and hands waved in their direction.

“Hey, Sunshine!” shouted one voice. “Who’s that you’ve got there?”

“Don’t tell us you’ve gone and gotten yourself a boyfriend,” said another in jest.

“No, no, he’s just a friend,” Counterfeit answered back, laughing nervously.

_Friend._

Arsenal liked that word. 

And he liked the way Counterfeit said it. It was genuine and honest. The fact that they had only met earlier that day was turning into a minor detail that was gradually becoming irrelevant.

Arsenal never had any friends before, not that he was allowed to have any to begin with. Where he came from, there were only people you unfortunately knew. People that, to him, could only be described as the farthest thing from being a friend. Arsenal was glad that they were far away, especially one of those people in particular. He was glad to be on the Satellite. He was glad to be with Counterfeit.

He was glad to finally have found a friend.

* * *

“Shorty didn’t mention that you were missing an arm,” Cassette stated as she looked at her new employee. “You got any special skills or talents? Experience working in the restaurant biz?”

“I don’t, sorry.” he replied glumly. There was only one thing he had been conditioned to believe he was good at and it wouldn’t help him here. 

He didn’t want to think about it.

“I see.” She turned to Counterfeit. “Alright, Sunshine. You’re in charge of him. He’ll start tomorrow. I’ve got a shipment of supplies coming in and I could use him, even if he’s missing a piece.”

Arsenal looked up at Counterfeit with a slight smile. They met optics and Counterfeit flashed a full one back at him.

“Now,” the retired racer continued, “I don’t have any extra rooms but Counterfeit’s should be big enough for the both of you. There’s a pull out berth from the side wall paneling.”

Arsenal may not be the smiley type like Counterfeit was, but his spark beamed. His old life was over. The past was the past. He was free. His new life was beginning.

And he was happy.

* * *

“Sorry about the mess,” Counterfeit stammered. “I didn’t think I’d be having any guests over today, let alone a _roommate.”_

“It’s ok,” Arsenal assured, “It looks...lived in.”

That was one way to put it. 

Counterfeit’s room was quite spacious, but the spaciousness of the room was dwarfed by the sheer amount of stuff that was scattered about it. It looked more like a miniature junkyard than a berthroom.

The monoformer nervously began moving things around to make room for the pull-out berth on the side wall of the room. He had never been so mortified in his life. Everything he moved out of the way was something he had picked up off the street, convincing himself that it was trash and therefore ok to take.

But he couldn’t say that about _everything_ in his room.

He hated this. He hated having to do this. He hated doing this in front of Arsenal, even though he knew the other had no idea where any of this stuff had come from. The idea of Arsenal finding out filled him with dread. 

What would he think of him? 

What would he think if he really knew who he was?

The taller mech did his best to push these thoughts back deep within himself as he finally moved enough junk to get the spare berth to pull out. He had never used it before, being the only one to use the room, so it wasn’t a surprise that the fixture wasn’t so easy to move. But Counterfeit was fairly strong, so it wouldn’t take long before he could get it out.

“Are you a...collector or something?” Arsenal asked, his blue optics scanning the room. 

There was so much stuff in here. Random odds and ends. Spare parts, baubles, trinkets, and a whole lot of other things. There wasn’t any sense of organization as far as the grey mech could tell.

“Uhhh, I guess you could say that,” Counterfeit responded, still trying to pull out the metal slab from out of the wall. “Hey, Arnie,” he interrupted, changing the subject, “remember when I asked you what it was like to transform way earlier today?”

“...Yeah.”

“Well, my collecting habits are, um, something that I don’t like to talk about.”

“Fair enough,” said Arsenal. 

Counterfeit felt terrible. Eventually, the one armed mech would find him out and think of or treat him differently. It was only a matter of time.

“Wow, this is dusty,” the monoformer exclaimed, finally pulling the spare recharge slab out of the wall. “You can use mine for n—” He stopped to look at the other, only to realize he had been standing in the doorway this whole time. “Don’t be a stranger, Arnie! You can come in. It’s your room, too,” he smiled. 

Truth be told, the smaller mech was still trying to figure out if this was all a dream or not. He wasn’t used to this kind of treatment. He had never known anyone to be so...so nice. 

To _him._

* * *

Arsenal walked in and went straight for the berth. He had never slept on one that looked so comfortable before. There was only one problem with this one, though. It was a little too high for him to climb onto. At least with one arm.

“Hey, Counterfeit..”

“Yeah, Arnie?” he asked, rummaging through his subspace for something to wipe off dust and grime.

“Can you...help me?”

Counterfeit turned to see the problem. He felt kind of stupid for not thinking about it sooner.

“Oh, yeah. Sorry about that, “ He extended his arm and opened his palm upwards to be used as a prop. “One hand should do the trick, I think.”

Arsenal smiled.

* * *

Several days had gone by and Arsenal had started to relax a bit more in his new surroundings. Life at the Circuit Saloon was wonderful. He got paid honestly, he was treated like an actual person, but most importantly, Counterfeit was always close by whenever he needed him.

_“If you need any help, let me know,”_ he had told him with that same smile that he always gave. Every time he saw it, the grey mech felt like there was hope in the world. It was so warm and genuine, and it gave Arsenal a feeling that was unfamiliar to him. He didn’t know what it was, but the feeling was always there when he was around the monoformer. 

He liked the feeling, whatever it was. It made him feel the opposite of what he had always been made to feel.

It made him...forget things.

His current thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the door opening. Counterfeit had gone to the back to get some more supplies for Cassette, leaving him to be the one to welcome folks in. He turned to greet whoever it was that had just walked in and prepared to execute the routine he had been taught: Greet them, Seat them, Treat them well. 

_Counterfeit taught him that._

But when Arsenal saw who had entered the bar, his spark nearly flickered out on the spot. Fear consumed him and he became paralyzed. He attempted to move himself on trembling legs to escape once again from her, but it was too late. Their optics had already met.

“Don’t just stand there, hun,” said Cassette from behind the bar. Arsenal turned to look at the ex-racer with a blank stare, his optics screaming in silence. _“Go on.”_

Oh, how he wanted not to be anywhere near her let alone voluntarily _approach her_. But because he was scared, because they were in a public setting, because Cassette was watching, he did as he had always been known within himself to do. 

Arsenal did as he was told.

He approached Traffic and tried convincing himself that she was just another customer and not who she actually was to him, but he couldn’t do it. Not with all the things she had made him do.

Or the things she had done to _himself._

As he stepped closer, his thoughts became sporadic and panic driven. 

Where was Counterfeit?

Why was he taking so long in the back?

“Arsenal,” she said flatly. “I’m glad I found you.”

Arsenal said nothing. He just stared into those burning red optics of hers.

“I’ll be waiting outside,” she continued, flatly. 

The hulking mech exited the bar, leaving Arsenal alone and dead inside.

* * *

Counterfeit returned from the back with two cases of engex. The glasses clinked against one another from the inside as he sat them on the counter. He grinned, feeling quite pleased with himself. Sure, doing heavy lifting was easy enough, but the satisfaction of being of help to anyone made such tasks much more rewarding.

After he had set them down, he looked over at Cassette, who was cleaning out some empty glasses with a rag. She looked irritated and disappointed.

“What’s wrong?” he asked, looking about the place to see if maybe he could figure it out for himself. Then, he realized something. 

“Hey, where’s Arnie?”

“He’s gone, Sunshine. He quit.”

“What? Why?”

“I don’t know. He left with someone not too long ago. He wanted me to tell you ‘thank you’ for all the help.”

Counterfeit tried to smile at that last part, but he didn’t have it in him to do it. This didn’t make any sense at all. Arsenal seemed quite happy to be there at the saloon and spending time together when they weren’t working. Even with his timid and introverted nature, Arsenal had begun to be more talkative with the larger mech, occasionally even having small talk with Cassette and even a customer or two. Why would he just...leave like that?

Counterfeit frowned.

* * *

Arsenal sat in the passenger seat inside of Traffic, holding his knees as closely into his torso as he could with one arm. It was a quiet ride to the top of the space station and the silence yelled in the grey mech’s audio receptors. 

There was no telling what the bruiser was going to do to him.

They reached the top of the Satellite where ships could come and go freely. Arsenal felt an emotional numbness as Traffic’s cargo ship came into view. She pulled up beside it, then opened her passenger side door. Arsenal slid down onto the metal platform of the space port, where he heard the awful sound of her transformation behind him.

_ “Get moving.” _

Her vocalizer outputted an angry tone, one that he was all too familiar with. As he walked up the metal ramp to the rear hatch of the craft, he could feel the vibrations of her pede steps on the metal slat. As they entered and the hatch sealed them in, Arsenal receded back inside of himself once again.

He knew it was too good to be true. Having a friend and people who acted like they cared about him. Being happy for once in his miserable life. It was like a cruel joke, and no one was laughing.

As the metal door of the cargo ship closed behind them, Arsenal felt a blunt force upon his back plates, then found himself hitting the floor and sliding into the internal hull of the ship. His vision flickered as his mental processors sped up to register what had happened. Then the pain began to register and centralize where he had been struck. He knew there had to be a massive dent. As he struggled to get on his knees, his mind went to Shortfuse, and how he had fixed his exposed socket joint.

Arsenal looked up at Traffic who had that cold, unforgiving expression. His optics then detected a quick movement and recognized it as her heavily plated pede slamming into his torso, pressing him closer into the siding. Screeches of metal on metal shrieked inside of the ship. Traffic released her pede and squatted down at the smaller mech who was now vomiting his own energon. 

She tutted. 

“You see, Arsenal? This is what happens when you run away.”

She cupped his chin in her grip and gave a reminding squeeze with her thumb and forefinger. Oral solvent mixed with energon trickled on and over her black gauntlets as the poor spark’s ventilation system hiccupped. Traffic’s red optics scanned over the patchwork done on Arsenal’s left side. 

“Looks like somebody had a doctor’s appointment.”

He whined sharply as the pressure on his jaw increased.

_“What did you tell them?”_ she asked maliciously.

“Nothing..!!” Arsenal sobbed, the tears he had been holding back finally streaking down his face.

Traffic let go of him and rose as the crying mech used his remaining arm to protect himself from any possible assault.

“Good,” she hissed. “I’d hate to do to you what I did to my last gun. Now, clean this mess up.”

* * *

Counterfeit lied on his berth and stared at the ceiling as he waited for his sleep mode to kick in. His fingers were laced and rested on his chest. He turned his helm to look at the spare berth that he had yet to put back into the wall. 

It was empty now.


	7. The People You Know

His administrative leave had ended, and Crowbar was asked to return to the Security Department. He sat at his desk and began his usual routine as if he had never left to begin with. He had thought a lot while he was away, mostly about himself. 

He knew if he wasn’t careful, he could possibly be terminated.

He didn’t want that, so he decided to play it cool. In order for him not to receive any more complaints against him, whether they be from licensed officers or civilians, he needed a different approach. He needed to change his tactics. That meant no more listening to police scanners or following suspicious personnel through confirmed areas with high criminal activity. He had to be—

— _a vigilante!_

It was simple. By day, he would be the good little secretary everyone begs him to be, but by night, he’ll become a savior in the shadows. Crowbar smiled at this thought as he read his emails, trying to pay attention to them.

He’d need a secret identity. Possibly a new name, and a new look.

But the real question he asked himself was whether or not he would incorporate his handmade Autobot insignia into the concept. Would it be a dead giveaway that it was him? Probably so, since he had created for himself an infamous reputation of being the Satellite’s very own _“fake Autobot cop.”_

He figured he could work out the details later.

* * *

“Crikey,” the beastformer exclaimed. “She sure put a numbah on you, didn’t she?”

Arsenal didn’t respond. He never really talked to Snaggletooth anyway. And he certainly didn’t want to talk about what Traffic had done to him. He wanted to go back to forgetting.

He wanted to go back to Counterfeit.

The crocodile finished popping the dents out of Arsenal as best he could. It was still obvious that his frame had suffered physical stress, but Snaggletooth was a medic that couldn’t care less about personal aesthetics. Traffic had told him to patch him up, not make him look like he was fresh off the conveyor belt, so that’s what he did. 

The beastformer was smart enough to do what he was told, too.

“Now, let’s go about fixing that arm a’ yours.”

Instinctively, Arsenal grabbed at his fixed socket.

“I’m surprised you didn’t bleed out,” the medic said, walking over to a storage unit in the room. He opened it, taking out an arm that was decorated with gun barrel kibble. “How did you manage to take it off, anyway?”

It was a long and painful process. Arsenal had used one of the sealing doors on the ship to clamp down on the appendage, then twisted and pulled until the metal had become malleable enough to rip. But he wasn’t about to tell him that. He wouldn’t have cared anyway. At least not in a genuine sense. Snaggletooth only cared about three things; smoking, drinking, and doing whatever Traffic told him to do so he could continue smoking and drinking in peace. 

The title ‘medic’ was used loosely for him. He was more of a mech of all trades aboard the ship. But despite what anyone called him, he was of value to Traffic, and that was enough to keep him alive.

“Not gonna talk, ey?” he asked. “Well, maybe it’s for the best. After all, too much talk can get a mech killed.”

As the crocodile approached him closer with his old arm, his grip on where Surge had patched him up grew tighter. The larger mech set the arm down next to him on the table the grey mech was sitting on, then turned to a wall of miscellaneous tools and equipment. He grabbed a handheld saw and a welder.

“I’m out of analgesic solution, so try to think a’ something pleasant,” he said. “Now, be a champ and move your hand.”

Arsenal sat there, looking up and the thick-plated mech with pleading, lubricating eyes.

“Oh, come now, Arsenal. Don’t gimme that look,” Snaggletooth said. “You’re lucky she hasn’t sent you off to be smelted. Be grateful she wants me to put your arm back on and not take your head off,” he added.

Tears began to fall from blue optics at the words. The medic rolled his eyes and scoffed.

_“Cripes sake,_ Arsenal, don’t cry. You know I can’t stand it when you cry.”

Arsenal lowered his head and moved his remaining hand to his intake, biting down on a knuckle. He winced as he heard the saw blade’s motor turn on. The weapon offlined his optics and tried to imagine he was back at Shortfuse’s Minor Surgery Center, but as soon as the spinning metal touched his frame the dream disappeared in a whirl of pain. He bit down to hold in a yell and stifle a cry. 

_“Pain builds character,”_ he had heard Snaggletooth say before.

His thoughts became frantic, trying to focus on something to distract him from the ungentleness that was this operation. Then, he heard a soft voice from deep within his spark.

_ “If you need any help, let me know.” _

Counterfeit had said that to him, and he meant it. 

But Counterfeit was so far away now. How could he possibly help him?

Unless..

* * *

“I’m going out for lunch,” Airstrike had said to Crowbar. “You should come with me.”

He couldn’t recall a time that Airstrike had invited him out to lunch, so he was taken back a little at the offer. 

But he wasn’t about to decline. 

She was his superior, and he had given her enough trouble as it was. Crowbar felt like he was obligated to go, whatever her reasoning was.

They sat across from each other at a booth inside of a diner not too far from the station. As they waited for their orders to arrive, the motorcycle couldn’t help but worry about what the occasion was for this. Perhaps his absence from the Security Department’s office had made her realize how replaceable he was. He was sure that whoever had been filling in for him while he was forced to be away had done a decent job. His assigned duties weren’t that difficult. 

Was he finally being let go?

“Crowbar, there’s something I want to talk to you about.”

“Hold on, Airstrike,” the two-wheeler began, “I want...to say something first.” 

The jet gave him a confused look as the waitress finally sat their orders down on the table.

“Alright then,” she responded, folding her arms over her cockpit.

Crowbar laced his fingers together and looked down at his plate, unwilling to look at his employer in the optics.

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, being dismissed from work and all, and I wanted to apologize.”

Airstrike’s expression softened as he spoke.

“I know...that at times I can be a bit persistent and, uh, _assertive_ towards people...but I’m only doing what I believe is right.”

She opened her mouth to reply, but he continued before she could get a single word out.

“I know I didn’t make it at the Autobot Academy of Iacon. I know I’m...a failure. And even if I’m not...a real cop, “ he said sorrowfully, before knocking a clenched fist into his metal chest, “I feel like I’m one in here. In my _spark.”_

“Crowbar...”

“Before you give me the pink slip, allow me to formally resign, so that it will reflect better on me when I look for a new job.”

“I’m not letting you go,” the seeker said. “I just need to ask you about something.”

Crowbar felt a bit foolish after giving that short speech, but also felt relief that he wasn’t being fired.

_“O-Oh,”_ he stammered, taking a small bite of his lunch.

“I want you to tell me about your past.”

He swallowed and took a sip of his beverage, thinking of the best way to start his story. 

He couldn’t help but smile a bit, thinking back on it.

“Well,” he began, “When I first got to the academy, I was shocked at how big it was. I thought it was _a titan,”_ he laughed. “I—”

“No, Crowbar. Your _other_ past. The one before you became enrolled at AAI.”

Suddenly, Crowbar lost his appetite.

And his desire to talk.

“Everyone’s heard about you being the wannabe Autobot both before the war and now, here on the Satellite. But I want to know if the things I’ve heard about you before you attempted to become an Autobot are true.”

Crowbar sank down into his seat, his spark sinking with him.

“I don’t do _those things_ anymore,” he said defensively.

“I know. And I believe you. I just need to know if you’re as good with highly encrypted information as your so-called criminal record has made you out to be.”

“I was told that my records wouldn’t be used against me after I went through the rehabilitation program,” he stated. 

He was beginning to feel like he was being backed into a corner.

_ Again. _

“I’m not trying to use it against you, Crowbar.” Airstrike sighed. “Look, I’ve got something classified that’s been brought to my attention, and those bozos up at Communications don’t know what they’re doing.”

“Have you tried contacting Radar?” the motorcycle suggested. The Head of Security gave him a look.

“You think I haven’t? He’s nearly impossible to get a hold of, and only calls to report status updates from our offsite asteroid belt facility.”

Crowbar was painfully aware.

He missed Radar terribly and waited for each second to pass by until he would receive the next call from his beloved satellite dish.

_“I need you, Crowbar,”_ Airstrike said, changing the subject. “You’re the only one I can trust with this. It could be important.”

The anxiety and dread that had been dwelling within him during this conversation melted away, and his spark began to burn brightly. He pushed his plate of fuel to the side of the table and looked up at Airstrike with a determined look.

“What do you need me to do?”


	8. Memories

“I am so excited!” Doodad exclaimed. “It’s been forever since we’ve been off world!”

“Uh-huh,” Surge said, reading over a checklist that was sent to him by Syringe. He was going over supplies that would need to be packed up and taken to this so-called space station versus equipment that would already be provided at their new facility. As his optics scanned over the list, it became apparent to him that most of the large equipment was already available, and that the only things that really needed to be brought were smaller tools and appliances.

“Surge, are you even listening?” The blue power cell asked with a pout.

_“Probably not,”_ said Gizmo, their pink sparkmate. _“Workaholic,”_ she teased aloud.

Surge smiled as he continued to look over the transport inventory list. Syringe had promised them that after they had settled into their new clinic that they would have some time off. Everyone had been working non-stop while the armistice between the Autobots and the Decepticons was in effect, making the necessary preparations to leave Cybertron before the two factions would inevitably ravage the planet.

“I’m listening,” Surge corrected. “I’m just going over everything before Syringe and Shortfuse get back.” Gizmo walked over, took the data pad out of his hands and activated the camera setting.

“Doodad, come ‘ere,” She encouraged, pressing herself close to Surge’s side, placing her free arm around his waist.

“We have work to do,” he laughed, easing into Gizmo’s touch.

“One picture won’t hurt,” Gizmo assured. Doodad pranced over and glomped onto Surge’s other side. He placed his lips onto his sparkmate’s cheek and Gizmo took the picture.

* * *

Surge stared at the picture on his old data pad. Every so often he would go back to it, and every so often it would make his spark ache. He could still feel the remnants of their sparks mingling within his spark chamber. It was his only comfort, but at times it wasn’t so comforting. It was a bittersweet reminder. Shortfuse had offered to take him to the Upper Satellite’s hospital unit to have their spark fragments removed, but he refused. 

Surge did not want to let go.

His attention was directed to a knock at the door. He darkened the screen of the device and set it down on his berth. The room was still a mess, and he had let himself get distracted by memories of the past. 

But that wasn’t much of a surprise to him.

He went over to the door and pressed a button on the control panel that was mounted on the wall. The door slid open. He expected it to be Shortfuse, but he found himself looking straight into Counterfeit’s thighs.

“My optics are up _here,_ Surge,” the monoformer giggled. 

Surge shook his head and stepped to the side, allowing the taller mech entry. Counterfeit came in and sat on the small berth, which, compared to him, could’ve been mistaken for a bench.

“No matter how many times you tell it, that joke will never be funny,” Surge replied lightheartedly. 

He continued to clean as Counterfeit made himself comfortable. It had been a while since they had spent some time together. Surge wasn’t one to openly admit a lot of things, but he had missed his friend.

With Arsenal gone, Counterfeit has been given more shifts at the saloon to cover, which he gladly took, but that meant less visits to the clinic to spend time with his favorite minibots.

“Arsenal thought it was funny,” Counterfeit stated. 

“Well, his sense of humor was just as bad as yours so I don’t doubt it.”

“I like to think our sense of humor is _advanced,”_ he said, his optics catching hold of a datapad sitting next to him.

“Uh-huh.”

Surge continued cleaning the junk off of the floor and organizing them onto his shelving unit. Most of what he had were electronic tomes of Cybertronian medical practices, first aid, diseases, and the like. All given to him by Shortfuse, which had been handed down to him from Syringe.

Shortfuse had been trained under Syringe during their time on Cybertron, before the war. After he became fully certified they became partners in practice, working side by side and spark to spark. 

After the incident, Shortfuse assumed the role of doctor at the Minor Surgery Center. And every good doctor needs a nurse, so Shortfuse asked Surge if he would be willing to work as a junior medic instead of just a medical assistant. Surge agreed, despite not wanting to at first. But Shortfuse was glad that he accepted the offer. The nuke knew it would be better for the broken sparked mech to keep occupied despite the tragedy, and teaching Surge all that Syringe had taught him was his own way to stay busy.

Counterfeit’s hand found its way onto the old datapad sitting next to him. It was small and outdated. His cooling fans turned on to the lowest setting as his internal core temperature began to rise. 

_ He was getting another urge. _

His optic ridge furrowed as adrenaline flooded his fuel lines. His mind flashed impulsive messages of _“take it”_ as his hand caressed the smooth surface of the screen. Surge’s back was turned from him, so he easily could just snatch the small device up and cram it into his subspace. 

As the thoughts continued to fill him with anxieties, he accidentally activated the touch motion sensor on the screen. He looked and saw a picture of Surge with two other power cells. One was pink with yellow accents, while the other was a dark blue hue with green secondary colors. 

He knew they had to be Gizmo and Doodad. 

Counterfeit had heard the names on occasion through Shortfuse. Apparently, the transport ship that they were on, along with Shortfuse’s conjunx, had some kind of accident, leading to their deaths. He had read an article about it in a news projector he had stolen shortly after arriving on the space station.

“Hey, Surge,” he began. Surge turned around to see Counterfeit leaning forward, handing the datapad over to him. He took it and saw the image of his sparkmates on screen once again. “Will you tell me about them?”

* * *

“Slacking off, I see,” the paramedic helicopter jested as she walked in.

“You know it, boss,” Gizmo replied, handing the datapad back to Surge.

“You should take a picture with us, Syringe!” Doodad exclaimed. 

Syringe chuckled.

“Ah, I’ve never liked having my picture taken. I’m not very photogenic, I think.”

“Well, pardon me, but I’d say you think wrong,” said a different voice.

The voice came from her conjux, Shortfuse. 

The tall mech giggled at him and blushed a bit.

“Oh, Sweetfuse, stop it,” she sang, turning towards her minibot and giving him an affectionate caress on top of his helm.

“I’ve finished going over the list you sent,” Surge announced.

“Wonderful! Thank you, Surge,” the helicopter said.

“Did you get the boarding passes?” Gizmo asked. 

This question caused Syringe’s happy expression to diminish.

“Ah, yes. About that..”

“We got ‘em, but APPARENTLY it was just too difficult to get five tickets for the same ship,” Shortfuse fumed. 

He and Syringed had been waiting in a line all morning just to be informed that five passes for one ship was not going to happen. So many people had already gotten theirs, and they were told that they were lucky to have gotten any at all. “We were able to get two passes for one ship and three for another.”

“Shortfuse and Surge will depart first, and then you two will come with me,” Syringe clarified. “It’s what we were able to get.”

“We’re gonna be _separated?!”_ Doodad exclaimed, clinging tightly to Surge’s arm.

“Only for a day or two. We’ll all meet up on the Satellite after our ship arrives,” Syringe answered.

Doodad did not like the sound of that. None of her power cells did. Power cells tended to stay in groups, and even more so if they were in a relationship with one another. But there wasn’t anything they could do about it. They would just have to be patient while they were traveling and reunite at their destination.

Surge was glad that Doodad would be with Gizmo, at least. The blue power cell tended to be clingy and whiny at times, so he’d have one of his sparkmates to comfort him. Surge, however, couldn’t ignore the sadness of traveling without either of them. Sure, he had Shortfuse, but during the past week of preparations he had been occupying his mind with thoughts of holding hands with them while looking out their ship’s window, sitting close together while trying to get Doodad to keep his hands to himself, recharging in their alt modes...

Surge sighed. 

Why did he have to be such a romantic?

* * *

Surge took the datapad from Counterfeit and stared at the image once more. That bittersweet image…

“Um,” Surge began. 

How was he going to begin? He never really talked about them to anyone since he had learned about the incident. And he never really expected anyone to openly ask him about them. Shortfuse had tried and tried to get him to open up, but he pushed him away as he always did.

Shortfuse had no problem about talking about Syringe in a casual setting from time to time. If Counterfeit was around, he’d ask the medic a question or two about her, and he would go off on a tangent or start to tell some kind of story about her. 

Surge liked it when he told stories about her. It was almost comforting to listen to. Depending on which story he was telling, Surge would remember being there, too. With Gizmo and Doodad.

Maybe if he talked about them to Counterfeit...he’d get some kind of comfort from it.

It was worth a shot.

“Well,” he continued, looking at his smiling face in the picture. 

He was so happy back then. 

“The pink mech is Gizmo and the blue one is Doodad. Gizmo was...strong. Not just physically, but emotionally. She was caring and supportive. She always had the right words to say. Doodad, on the other hand,” he chuckled a little, “..you and him would have been good friends. You’re both _idiots.”_

That made Counterfeit laugh. 

“But he was really sweet. Very, uh, touchy-feely. He was affectionate, I’ll put it that way.”

He paused, feeling the small smile he had while talking about them fade into a frown. He must have said too much, as his optics began to lubricate. The image on the old datapad became blurry through his visor. His trembling hands weren’t helping much either.

“I miss them so much...” he said, trying not to start sobbing. He could feel a few tears rebel against him as they slid down his cheek. He quickly wiped them away. He didn’t want to talk about them anymore. 

He had said enough.

Counterfeit reached into his subspace and pulled out a handkerchief that he may or may not have swiped from someone. He extended it to Surge. Surge looked up at the gesture and gave a small smile. Taking the small bit of fabric, he raised his visor and wiped his eyes. Surge began locking those feelings away once more as he finished, handing the handkerchief back to the monoformer and pulling his visor back down.

There was a silence that fell over them in Surge’s room, one with a somber atmosphere.

“I miss Arnie...” Counterfeit confessed. He played with the cloth in his hands as he looked down at it. He was smiling a little, but his optics frowned.

Surge took this as an opportunity to change the subject and focus on the other.

“So what was he like? I didn’t spend as much time with him as you did, so I only know him as being really quiet and kinda introverted.”

Counterfeit’s face lit up.

“Arnie was a great listener! I talked to him so much about all kinds of stuff when we were off shift together. He wasn’t very talkative, which was fine. He said he liked it better when _I_ was talking. He did do his best when talking with customers, though. I think they helped him open up a little. The regulars seemed to like him. Cassette liked him.” 

Counterfeit began to smile a little more. 

He liked Arsenal, too.

He liked him _a lot._

“He always laughed at my jokes. I remember one time when we were doing the dishes together, he asked me to give him a hand. And I asked him, ‘Do you want one or two?’ And do you wanna know what he said?” Counterfeit asked, doing his best not to break out into a fit of laughter.

Surge raised an optical ridge. “What did he say...?”

“He said, _‘Three!’”_ Counterfeit snorted, slapping at his knee. “Can you believe that!? _Three!!_ Gosh, he’s such a riot,” he laughed.

Surge shook his head. 

Terrible. 

Absolutely terrible. 

Not funny in the slightest. 

Surge wasn’t sure if _“advanced”_ was the right word to describe their sense of humor.

“And you two were _just_ roommates?”

Counterfeit reddened a little at the question.

_“Yes,”_ he replied. “We were just roommates. There wasn’t any funny business going on between us while he was here, promise...”

“If you say so,” Surge replied, not totally convinced. 

_“Besides,”_ Counterfeit thought to himself, _“who’d want to date a monoformer?”_

* * *

Arsenal laid on the pull-out berth and sighed. 

_ What a day. _

“Last minute rushes are always the worst, huh?” Counterfeit asked, sitting on his own berth and stretching.

The gunformer couldn’t help but steal a glance at the other while he reclined into his berth. 

His friend sure was a handsome mech.

“I’ll say,” Arsenal responded, fixing his gaze back up at the ceiling. “I didn’t know power cells were a bunch of partybots.”

Counterfeit laughed.

“Oh, yeah. When they get together all they wanna do is drink or dance or sing.”

“But not Surge?”

“Well, Surge is different. He’s kind of a loner, I guess. Shortfuse says he wasn’t always like that, though. Before his conjunxes died...”

“Oh.”

A brief silence fell over the pair before the smaller mech broke it.

“...What about you?” Arsenal dared to ask.

“Hm?”

“Do you, uh, have anyone special like that?”

Counterfeit blushed and grinned at the thought.

“Oh, no! No, no. I’ve never, uh...had anyone, really.” He chuckled nervously. “I guess I’m kind of a loner, too.”

Arsenal couldn’t believe it. Counterfeit was so nice and quite the looker, yet he’d never been courted before? 

Wow.

_“That’s a shame,”_ Arsenal blurted out.

“Why do you say that?” Counterfeit asked, looking over at his friend.

“Because...anyone would be lucky to have you as a courtmate.”

Arsenal felt a wave of heat rising to his faceplates as he ended the sentence. He hoped Counterfeit didn’t think he was referring to himself. Although, it wasn’t such a bad thought, right? As a hypothetical, he clarified internally. 

He and Counterfeit were _just friends,_ after all. 

“Arnie, stop! You’re gonna make me blush, haha...”

Ah, but it was too late. The monoformer already was. 

He was never really good at accepting compliments, but Arsenal’s always sounded different. Like his compliments were ok to believe. Maybe it was because during the past couple of weeks they had become such good friends. 

Yeah, that had to be it.

“Anyone would be lucky to date you, too, y’know..!”

“I doubt it,” Arsenal disagreed.

“Aw, c’mon. Don’t sell yourself short, Arnie. You’re a great guy, really!”

Arsenal had spent a majority of his life hating himself for what he was and the things he had done. Traffic had ingrained in him that he didn’t have any real worth aside from being a tool for her to use. 

Counterfeit was starting to make him feel like all of that was a lie.

Arsenal turned his head to look at him.

“You think so?”

“I know so,” Counterfeit said, looking back at the other.


	9. Three Words

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: This chapter contains heavily implied dub-con. Please read with caution if you are sensitive to this subject matter.

Radar’s colleagues on the Satellite were all too familiar with Crowbar’s presence. Before the Head of Communications and Technology went overseeing mining operations at the offsite asteroid belt facility, Crowbar would visit the CT Building often just to see him. 

Synchron _hated_ Crowbar. 

He hated everything about him. He hated the way he made Radar laugh. How he made Radar look at him. How he could come in on a whim and take Radar’s beautiful mind away from his work. 

The Lieutenant _despised_ Crowbar. 

Crowbar was an idiot. A moron. And now, said moron was parading around his workspace once again, this time with Security Chief Airstrike behind him.

“To what do I owe _this_ pleasure?” Synchron asked with his deep voice. 

He tried to sound genuine and not sarcastic in the slightest.

_“Official business,”_ Crowbar answered proudly. “I need the main terminal.”

Synchron turned his screen-face at Airstrike, looking for an actual statement of official business.

“This is the solution I emailed you about,” she said.

_ “Him?” _

“That’s right.”

The empurata laughed.

“Forgive me, but I can’t shake the feeling that this is some kind of joke.”

“It’s not a joke,” Airstrike emphasized. “Take Crowbar to the main console and show him the encrypted file. Do whatever he asks. This is a matter of security now.”

The slender mech gave a blank look, which was easy to do considering he wasn’t able to convey emotions through facial expression, and led Crowbar past a series of doors into a larger room with a massive computer layout. It featured a large screen and a control panel with keyboards, buttons, and switches. Crowbar had never used something of this scale before. But if push came to shove, he would use his... _special ability._

“Airstrike briefed me on the situation, but I’d like to hear your account, Lieutenant.”

“Yes, of course.”

Synchron _sounded_ happy to help, but he was far from it. This was yet another invasion from Crowbar. Had it not been for Airstrike’s intimidating frame lurking about, he would have had Crowbar escorted out immediately by one of the guards. 

He could feel his antenna twitch with irritation.

“Early this morning, we received an encrypted file from an unknown source. My team and I have been working endlessly trying to retrieve the information from it, but all we have managed to do is extract notifications from the network’s firewall system.”

“Sounds like a virus,” said the motorcycle.

“Yes, well...we won’t know for sure unless we, or,” Synchron bit his metaphorical tongue, _“you,_ I should say, open the file safely and extract the data.”

“Sounds easy enough.”

Synchron scoffed internally. Had it been _“easy enough”_ he would have been able to do it himself. Feeling petty, the PDA decided to... _make a comment._

“Yes, I’m sure it does. I’ve tried contacting Radar about the matter, but he’s rather difficult to get in touch with, which I’m sure you’re familiar. ”

Ah, and here we go. The passive-aggressive comments that Crowbar was surprised to have taken this long to emerge. It must have been because Airstrike was here, and that they were now alone in the console room. 

“I’m familiar with a lot of things about Radar, Synchron. _Intimate, personal things_ about him that you’ll never get to know.” Crowbar’s optics remained fixated on the screen, his fingers dancing away at the control panel as he made his remark. Feeling cocky, he made another. “Perhaps you’d be able to do this yourself if you had paid better attention to how Radar worked with encrypted files instead of just his _aft,”_ Crowbar then turned towards the taller mech and gave him a serious look, “...which I’m sure you know I am also _familiar.”_

_Synchron loathed Crowbar._

How dare he not only insult his technological ability, but he had the gall to flaunt their relationship in such a crude way. What did Radar even see in this...this…?!

“You know, it’s kind of funny,” Crowbar continued. “How in the world could someone as smart and as beautiful as Radar be with someone like me.” Crowbar laughed. “For Primus’ sake, _I’m just a secretary,”_ he said with a slight smirk.

_...ARROGANT TWIT!! _

“I’ll leave you to your work. If you’ll excuse me,” Synchron said, promptly exiting the room. 

He had heard enough.

_“Good riddance,”_ Crowbar thought to himself. The last thing he wanted was someone who he knew that had the hots for his mech breathing static down his neck while he worked. 

He messaged Airstrike that he would begin doing what he had done all those years ago on Cybertron. She gave him the affirmative, and the process started.

* * *

Arsenal sat in his room, his knees pressed tightly into his chest. He hugged them with his right arm, still not used to the left one being reattached. 

Snaggletooth had done a decent job putting it back on. He really didn’t have a choice in the matter. Had her gun not been fully functional, the “medic ” would never hear the end of it, and in turn, Arsenal would also never hear the end of it.

He laid below the air vent where his berth was located, listening for the sound of Traffic’s voice in the next room over.

Snaggletooth’s room.

Traffic had been extremely irritated, more so than her usual “pleasant” self. It was only a matter of time before she would seek out Snaggletooth for her own desire. It was in this way and this way only that Arsenal pitied Snaggletooth. He couldn’t imagine what it was like to have her on top of him, using him in _that way._ Arsenal hated to think it, but he was glad that it was the beastformer and not him that she lusted after. Snaggletooth was a lot bigger than him. Bulkier, and heavily armored. Snaggletooth could take a pounding in more ways than one. Still, there were times where Arsenal could hear the faint sobs of a broken mech long after Traffic had left the other room.

* * *

Snaggletooth poured his second drink of the day. 

It certainly wouldn’t be the last. 

He only had a few cygarettes left, and he was saving them until the ship reached the nearest fueling station. There, he could buy more, along with some more engex for himself. Hell, maybe a bottle of high grade. 

He laughed. 

He wouldn’t be able to enjoy it for long, though. Traffic always drank most of the high grade brought on board, the glitch.

His thoughts on his personal leisure were interrupted by the sound of his door opening. His spark sank in his chest. He knew who it was. Arsenal at least had the common courtesy to knock first.

“Here for your next _appointment,_ are we?” 

Traffic grinned as she shut the door behind her.

_“Just let it happen, Toothie. Just let her take what she wants so she can leave,”_ the crocodile thought to himself. _“Bettah me than the little guy.”_

* * *

Upon hearing the grotesque grunts of Traffic’s vocalizer through the vent, Arsenal sprang off of his berth and left his room, heading straight for the bridge of the ship. He had practiced in his mind what he was going to do over and over. But now that he was actually doing it, he couldn’t help but become extremely nervous about it. His life was on the line. If she found out what he was doing, she’d surely beat him to death. 

He didn’t want to think about that.

He took a deep internal ventilation as he pulled up the list of transmission coordinates on screen. He scrolled through them, finding one in particular. Traffic kept the ship on tight lock down as far as sending and receiving communications went, and with good reason. He wondered if his message would even get across. If anyone would be able to access it. 

He prayed to Primus that it would.

* * *

_ Crowbar was in. _

He successfully managed to access the building’s main functions program and keyed in the command that locked him in the room. He worked best alone. Alone and undisturbed. He then hacked into the security network and cut the feed being recorded from the room he was in. 

_ Just like old times. _

And just like those old times, he drew up his hands and removed his helm. He set the maroon helmet down onto the top of the console gently, as to not accidentally press a button or turn a dial. He felt the petals of metal that covered his brain module bloom into a crown above his head, allowing access to the organ. He hoped that doing this wouldn’t turn him into an addict again. 

But Airstrike had asked him for his help. And he couldn’t let her down.

He was different now.

Taking a connecting cable from the terminal in one hand and probing the back of his mind with the other, he maneuvered the pronged end of the cord into the receiving port. He secured the link and his optics flashed violently. The feeling of being hooked up to such a device overwhelmed him. It was much more state of the art than what he used to use during his “bad boy” days. 

He braced himself against the console as he initiated the data exchange between him and the machine. He felt the rush of zeros and ones and long lines of code being downloaded into his system. Crowbar felt weak in the knee joints. His whole _frame_ felt weak. 

He was certainly out of practice.

The motorcycle worked back and forth in his mind, unraveling and manipulating the encrypted file on a psycho-digital level. Minutes faded away like they were nothing. Time ceased to exist while he was in this state. Crowbar reminded himself that he needed to focus, not give into the trance like state that he used to fall headfirst into when he started doing this early in his “career.”

He heard himself sigh in relief as he visualized the file opening before him, spilling it’s information directly into his mental processor. The encrypted file, once fully opened and decoded, displayed three words and three words only.

**_HELP ME COUNTERFEIT_ **


	10. Casual Interrogations

Cassette's optics scanned across the room at her customers. Things had slowed down enough for her to send Counterfeit early. He insisted that he could stay until closing, but she told him to take it easy for the rest of the day.

With Arsenal leaving so suddenly, he’d been picking up the slack. In fact, to her it looked like he was trying to distract himself by doing so much around the joint. She wasn’t a hundred percent positive, but she had a very strong hunch as to why.

While “the one armed wonder boy” was there, Sunshine’s smiles shone just a little bit brighter. But with the little grey mech gone, those smiles had dimmed. Not enough for the customers to notice, but the ex-racer could definitely tell.

When they were together, serving customers or cleaning after hours, Counterfeit’s whole demeanor was different. Sure, he was still the same old ray of sunshine that the Circuit Saloon knew and loved, but he was so much more animated. He was sunnier. He laughed more and whistled while he worked. 

_ Cassette had even caught him stealing glances at Arsenal on occasion. _

Now, Cassette was definitely a betting mech, and she’d place a high amount that the monoformer was very fond of Arsenal. She laughed to herself thinking about it, knowing that they had shared a room while he was there.

* * *

Crowbar burst through the doors of the Saloon with a serious and determined expression. All optics turned towards him, most furrowing into irritated looks. Folks knew who Crowbar was, that fake Autobot cop wannabe. Hell, he had tried to arrest most of the patrons who were trying to enjoy their drinks before he had stormed in.

_“I’m here for Counterfeit the Monofomer…!”_ he announced.

Ah, that was not the right thing to say. 

Within the flash of a sparkbeat, many rugged individuals had pulled out their blasters and pistols, filling the room with the sound of weapons being locked and loaded. Cassette herself had found her own hand reaching under the counter for her sonic shotgun.

Crowbar gulped as several barrels were pointed at him. He recognized a few faces, and he knew that his had to have been recognized as well. He suddenly wanted to leave, _really, really quickly._

Airstrike walked in behind him and sighed deeply as she took out her Satellite Security Department badge and flashed it for all to see. 

“Weapons down, everyone. He’s with me.”

The room was then filled with audible grumbles as several people put their guns back into their subspaces, leaving several itchy trigger fingers with no relief against the motorcycle.

Crowbar stayed close to her side as they walked to the back of the establishment where Cassette was cleaning some glasses and keeping an eye on Crowbar.

_“Should I be the good cop or the bad cop?”_ Crowbar whispered to his superior officer.

_“I think you should stay quiet and let me do all the talking,”_ the seeker whispered back.

A good idea.

* * *

Arsenal had erased the sent message so neither Traffic nor Snaggletooth would know it had been sent. Still, he couldn’t shake the unending waves of “what ifs” while one of them was near the command terminal of the ship.

Traffic reclined in her makeshift captain's chair which was stationed behind the pilot’s station where Snaggletooth sat.

“The next fueling station should be coming up on screen in about an hour,” the crocodile said with his down under accent.

Traffic responded with, “Bring Arsenal out here.”

The beastformer bit his tongue before he could utter some snide remark that would no doubt result in some kind of act of violence from the larger mech. He leaned over the console, held down a button, and spoke into a microphone.

_ “Arsenal, come to the bridge, please. Thank you.” _

* * *

Airstrike and Crowbar sat at the bar. The security chief ordered herself a bottle of mid-grade and Crowbar ordered a fizzy comet.

“Sorry about my...secretary,” the flier apologized. She thanked Primus that she hadn’t accidentally said _‘partner.’_ Crowbar would never let her forget that. It was bad enough she was indulging him with “leading the investigation.” Then again, it was good to see him out of the office and not getting into any squabbles with some of the other officers or employees.

“It’s alright,” the ex-racer replied, “but he’s got some nerve to ask for Sunshine with his reputation with some of my customers.”

“I can imagine,” Airstrike said, glancing down at the two-wheeler beside her. He was fiddling with the straw in the square glass of his cocktail, looking rather glum.

He wanted so badly to feel more involved in this and not be sitting on the sidelines. He supposed that he should consider himself lucky to be sitting on the sidelines and not back at his desk in the security department’s office.

“There’s something that’s been brought to my attention, and we need to speak to Counterfeit. Ask him a few questions,” she continued.

Crowbar perked up a bit.

_ ‘We?’ _

The powder blue mech folded her arms and gave Airstrike a cross look.

“Is this about his _‘problem?’_ Because I’m pretty sure he’s got that Lost and Found agreement you set up just for him.”

“No, this isn’t about that. The details are classified and I’m afraid I can’t say much.”

“I see,” Cassette replied, still feeling uncertain about this situation. “Well, I’m afraid he’s not here. I gave him the rest of the day off. Poor dear’s been working his aft off since his little friend quit.”

“The nurse?” Airstrike questioned. Surge was the only “little friend” Counterfeit had ever mentioned to her.

“Who, Surge? _Oh, no,”_ she laughed. 

Working for Cassette would be the last thing the power cell would do. He didn’t like her very much, and she knew it. It pained her, though. Every time Shortfuse came in she’d always ask how he was doing. She wanted to get to know Surge, seeing as how he was an important person to Shortfuse, who she loved dearly. But she knew Surge had his own issues he had to work out for himself. 

Maybe one day things would change.

“He was a smaller, grey mech. A little on the quiet side, that one,” she continued.

Crowbar grabbed the napkin under his drink and whipped out a pen from his subspace and began to draw something.

“Was he and Counterfeit close?” the seeker asked.

“Oh, yeah. They were two nutrition spheres in a pod. Practically inseparable. His name is Arsenal, but not once did I ever hear Sunshine call him that. It was always ‘Arnie’ this or ‘Arnie’ that.”

“Did he look like _this?”_ Crowbar chimed in, sliding his napkin drawing towards the bartender. She took a glance at the nearly perfect drawing of Arsenal’s face and helm.

“Yep, that’s him. That’s Sunshine’s Arnie,” she confirmed. “Did you know him?”

“Oh, uh..no. I just..I saw him walking around with Counterfeit every so often.”

Airstrike hoped that by _“saw”_ he didn’t mean _“stalked.”_

Crowbar hoped that she wouldn’t ask him about the particulars of his statement later.

“Anyway, if you’re looking for him, the only place I can think of that he would be at is the Minor Surgery Center a little ways down from here. If he’s not, then I don’t know what to tell you, Chief.”

Airstrike rose from her seat and Crowbar, taking one last sip of his drink, did the same. The large mech put her payment for the beverages on the counter and thanked Cassette for her time. She turned to leave, and Crowbar followed her out.

* * *

Arsenal groaned. 

He was very comfortable lying on his berth, alone in his room and not being around anyone. What could he possibly be needed for this time? 

He exited his quarters swiftly, not wanting to keep a certain someone waiting.

_ He hated her so much. _

The weapon approached the side of the captain's chair and stood there, waiting for Traffic to notice him. She sensed his presence and turned to look at him, sticking her arm out towards his direction.

_“Transform for me,”_ she ordered. And he did, reluctantly, into her grasp. The large vehicle held him and inspected his alt mode. Primus, he hated her touch. It was cold and unloving.

“Your transformation is a little slow,” she noted aloud. “Let’s hope this doesn’t become a habit when I actually need you.”

The last thing Arsenal wanted was to be needed by her again. He hated being used to take lives.

Traffic laid him across her lap, her hand staying wrapped around his grip firmly. It was a silent way for her to reiterate her possessive nature over him. 

_ He hated that, too. _

“We’ll be arriving at another Fuel Station in an hour,” she said, running her thumb over Arsenal’s metal texture. “If you’re a good mech and won’t run away again I’ll give you a few credits to get yourself something nice.”

Arsenal didn’t care what she had to offer him. She would use any means to control him.

* * *

“The clinic isn’t too far from here,” Crowbar said to Airstrike. He turned to look at her, waiting for her next instruction. She looked down at his eager expression. He had handled himself decently in the saloon, she thought, and decided to give him a little bit of leash.

“You go on ahead. I need to check back in at the station and make sure thing’s haven’t turned into complete chaos with my absence.”

_ “R-Really?” _

“Find Counterfeit, see if he knows of anyone that would try to contact him from outside of the space station. After that, get in touch with Synchron and see if he’s gotten any luck with finding out where that file came from. Report back to me as soon as you’re done. Think you can handle that?”

Without even thinking, his frame moved on it’s own, straightening up into a dignified posture. 

He saluted her.

_ “Yes, ma’am!!” _

She chuckled at his enthusiasm.

“Don’t make me regret this,” Airstrike said, transforming into her Cybertronian alt mode and taking off.

“I won’t!!” Crowbar shouted into the atmosphere. “I won’t let you down!!”

This was it! 

The moment Crowbar had been waiting all his life! 

A chance! 

An opportunity to prove himself!

He transformed into his vehicle mode, and sped down the winding road to the clinic.

* * *

Counterfeit and Surge had moved out of the minibot’s room and into the waiting area where the holovid monitor was located. The clinic was closed for the day as it was Supply Day. Once a week, Shortfuse would head up to Upper Satellite and pick up things that were needed to keep the minor surgery center running optimally. It was on days like this that Surge would take the opportunity to watch some soap operas, mostly old reruns from Cybertron, or an action movie or comedy of some kind. Counterfeit preferred the later options.

They had their bubbling energon drinks and a bowl of puffed energy snacks between them. Counterfeit held the remote and flipped through the channels trying to find something for him and Surge to watch.

Suddenly, there came a knock at the door. The pair of mechs looked at each other quizzically. It wasn’t Shortfuse, as he had a key card to the place. And it couldn’t have been a patient, as no appointments were held on supply days.

Surge got up and made his way to the door. He opened it manually from his side and found himself looking at Crowbar, the fake Autobot cop. Crowbar opened his mouth to say something, but Surge had already shut the door on him.

“Who is it, Surge?” Counterfeit asked, still flipping through the holovid programs.

“No one,” the dark grey mech replied, turning to go back to his spot on the couch.

But before he could, Crowbar had begun knocking on the door again, with a little more _passion._

“Doesn’t _sound_ like no one,” Counterfeit said back.

Surge sighed as he turned back around and opened the door again.

“What do _you_ want?” Surge said with an annoyed tone. 

Every time Crowbar showed up at their doorstep it was always for some mundane reason or another.

“Is Counterfeit here? I need to talk to him,” Crowbar said quickly. 

Again, he found the door closed in his face.

On the other side of the door, Surge looked at Counterfeit, who was looking back at him.

“Who is it?” the monoformer asked.

“It’s Crowbar. He says he needs to talk to you.”

Counterfeit gave the mini a confused look. He hadn’t taken anything recently, and he had purposefully been avoiding the motorcycle at all costs. 

_ That handmade Autobot faction badge was just too tempting. _

The wine colored mech set the remote on the table, stood up, and answered the door. Surge stood behind him, watching.

Crowbar looked up at Counterfeit, and Counterfeit looked down at him. 

Their last encounter hadn’t been exactly pleasant...

“Counterfeit,” he began, “I’m glad you’re here. I need to talk to you about something.”

Counterfeit said nothing for a moment, thinking about what the other could need to talk to him about.

“It might have something to do with Arsenal.”

Ah, that was the _right_ thing to say.

* * *

“He just left without saying goodbye,” Counterfeit began, frowning and fiddling with his fingers. It hurt to say that out loud. Why would Arsenal just leave like that? Didn’t he like him? Was there something he had done? Something he had said to offend him?

Crowbar sat in one of the single chairs in the waiting area of the clinic, listening to Counterfeit recount the day Arsenal had quit working at the Circuit Saloon.

“When I asked Cassette about it she said he was trying to seat a customer but they left after he saw him, and he left shortly after. I was in the stockroom when this all happened.”

“I see,” Crowbar said, taking in all the information being told to him. “Did Arsenal ever mention anyone to you? Anyone that he knew?”

“No, never,” Counterfeit answered back. “Arnie made it very clear that he didn’t want to talk about anything about where he came from before he got on the Satellite. I guess that also means people he might have known.”

Before Crowbar could come up with a good follow up question, Counterfeit spoke again.

“It’s _gotta_ be him, there’s no doubt in my mind that it is.” His tone changed from sad sounding to something entirely different. “Arnie’s in trouble.”

“Let’s not jump to any conclusions,” _said the mech who jumped to conclusions about people like it was put into his primary personality processor._

“He’s one of the only people that I know that would ask me for help. I told him if he ever needed me all he had to do was ask.”

“Ok. I’ve got a few calls to make and I’ll keep you posted,” Crowbar said, standing from his seat. “Thank you for, uh, your time.”

The motorcycle went towards the door of the clinic to leave, but something stopped him just before his hand reached the motion sensor. A feeling gnawed at his spark. Something that had been there since he had been put on administrative leave. He had a lot of time to think about himself and his actions, and his choice of words. Deep down, he felt like a hypocrite, calling people ‘criminal’ for misdemeanors or misunderstandings. He himself had been called that many times in his past.

Crowbar felt that he needed to make things right. Even if it meant starting with one person.

He turned back to look at Counterfeit with a softened, but kind of awkward expression. Optic contact was suddenly more difficult than it had been while he was talking to the monoformer. Was it the guilt? Was it remorse? He wasn’t entirely sure.

“Counterfeit,” he started, clearing his vocalizer. Counterfeit looked at him, waiting to hear what the shorter mech had to say. “I..I’m sorry for being so harsh with you about your condition. I’m going to try and be different about it from now on.” 

Was that…? Was that good enough?

After a moment, Counterfeit smiled a little at the wannabe cop.

“It’s ok. I forgive you.”

Apparently it was.


	11. Cybertronians

Surge had sat with them, remaining quiet while Crowbar asked his questions. He certainly wasn’t expecting that last part, though. The minibot had witnessed Crowbar coming into the clinic to chastise Counterfeit more times than he could count. He was led to believe that the two-wheeler was stuck in his ways with how he thought of or treated people. 

Maybe Crowbar wasn’t such a bad guy after all.

* * *

Synchron had been working nonstop since Airstrike and Crowbar had left, trying to pinpoint the location of where the message had been sent from. He could only get so far as to conclude that the source was either a high security facility or a moving vessel with some kind of signal tracking deterrent integrated into their communications system. Whoever had sent the message must not have had the right authorization codes to send it in the first place, thus creating such a heavily encrypted file to the Communications and Technology satellite receiver. 

Synchron sighed. 

He was doing all that he could, yet there was no change in the situation. No new developments, nothing to report.

And now Crowbar was comm’ing him. _Great._ Just what he needed.

He accepted the incoming call with disdain.

“Have you identified the source yet?”

At least Crowbar was to the point. That he could appreciate...

“No. There’s an interference that’s proving... _difficult to break through.”_

“Hm. Keep me posted. Crowbar out.”

Crowbar ended the call just as quick as he had initiated it, which the empurata didn’t mind. But part of him wished it had lasted just a little bit longer, long enough for him to maybe ask the hacker for some help. Of course, that would involve being above his pride in order to do so, which would’ve been a feat in and of itself.

Synchron didn’t want to admit that Crowbar was better than him. He was jealous of Crowbar. He had the mech of his dreams and he could do what he could not in terms of software manipulation.

Synchron sighed again and continued to work.

* * *

Crowbar sat at his desk in the security office typing up his report thus far. He included transcripts of the statements made by both Cassette and Counterfeit and attached audio files of the conversations. He made sure everything in this report was perfect. _It had to be._ This was one time Airstrike was allowing him to be on active duty. Crowbar needed to play his cards right. Be cool. Things were starting to change for him, and he couldn’t afford any blunders.

Maybe if he did well enough...he could get a promotion.

It was a nice thought, one that made him smile as he continued to type up his report. It would be one step further towards him becoming an actual Autobot, or at least that’s what he was telling himself. 

Finishing the report was proving difficult now as he began to daydream about this.

* * *

Counterfeit and Surge resumed watching holovid broadcasts after Crowbar had left. But Counterfeit wasn’t paying much attention to what was playing. He was too busy thinking about what Crowbar had said to him.

He was too busy thinking about _Arsenal._

He felt restless. He couldn’t just sit there doing nothing while Arsenal was out there in the dark recesses of space, Primus only knowing what kind of danger he was in. He needed to do something. 

_ Anything. _

“...Uh, I’m gonna go for a walk,” he said.

“Oh.” Surge replied, sounding a little disappointed. “Ok.” 

Counterfeit left, and Surge was all by himself. 

He fell on his side and laid on the couch. He didn’t want Counterfeit to leave. He was the only person, besides Shortfuse, that he felt comfortable enough to be social with. He had tried being talkative and friendly while Arsenal was there, but Surge was socially awkward and an introvert by nature. He preferred close knit relationships with a small group of people than being in a large crowd with acquaintances or strangers, which was uncommon for most power cells.

Power cells were known in Cybertronian society as being socialite outcasts. They were the first ones labeled as disposable class by the Senate. Propaganda began to spread, suggesting that Power Cells should offer their lives for the greater good of the planet and its available resources. Soon after, the Power Cell Rebellion began, and that was the beginning to the end of Cybertron. 

Power Cells, other “disposables,” and those who openly opposed the Senate, took their stand against them, eventually finding themselves face to face with Senatorial Guards and other armed officers. Many were killed, imprisoned, or empurata’d. 

To avoid another such event from happening, the Senate decided to allow those that had been classified as “disposable” to be given the freedom to choose their occupation. This was considered a victory, and celebrations began all across Cybertron. But people began to question the Senate and their other functionalist based policies. 

_ This would eventually pave the way for a group that would rise up and call themselves the Decepticons. _

For the Power Cells, however, the celebration never ended. They created their own culture at the expense of the Senate. They’d get together in groups and parade around until they found some bar or club, and they’d sing and dance or drink merrily, usually ignoring anyone who found them to be obnoxious or annoying. 

The Power Cells didn’t care what society thought of them. For Primus’ sake, society had basically told them to accept their own genocide as a means to allow more resource usage for the rest of the population. As long as they had each other, they were happy.

Except for Surge, who was terribly lonely and sad.

* * *

Counterfeit walked through the Lower Satellite district until he found the public elevator. As much as he loved to go on his long walks to think to himself, he didn’t want to do that today. Not after talking with Crowbar. 

Something was wrong. 

Something wasn’t right. 

He could feel it deep in his spark, and it made his fuel tank queasy. He got into the elevator and pressed the button that would take him straight to the top.

He needed to talk to an old friend of his.

* * *

As the next hour had passed, Traffic’s ship had located and docked into the fueling station. After several stops throughout space, they all start to look the same. This one, however, was much larger than the usual ones. That made Traffic happy, as it meant more opportunity for business.

Cybertronians weren’t the only ones who wanted energon. Several other races of biomechanical beings used it and even some _organics_ had purpose for the stuff. And judging by the various races that were on the docks of this fueling station, things looked promising.

Snaggletooth did most of the heavy lifting, carrying out the large crates of energon out of the ship and onto the dock. Not soon after their goods were on display, a strange looking organic lifeform wearing a badge of some kind approached them, speaking the Common Intergalactic language.

“[HELLO. DO YOU HAVE A SELLER’S PERMIT?]” they asked. Traffic reached into her subspace and took out a small card that was slightly larger than a business card.

“[YES,]” she replied. “[HERE. LOOK.]”

The organic creature took her permit into their tentacle grip and examined it with several eyes that were attached to eye stalks. They gave it back to her.

“[VERY GOOD.]”

Traffic put the card back into her subspace.

“[I AM ONE OF THE INSPECTION OFFICERS HERE AT THIS FUELING STATION. I AM REQUIRED TO EXAMINE THE GOODS YOU ARE GOING TO BE SELLING AND MAKING SURE IT IS ON THE APPROVED LIST OF INTERGALACTIC COMMERCIAL GOODS.]”

“[GO AHEAD,]” Traffic encouraged.

The organic lifeform opened the crates one by one, the pinkish purple hue of the energon cubes reflecting brightly in their eyes. They made an affirmative, gurgling sound.

“[AH, YES. ENERGON. MANY PEOPLE WILL BE HAPPY ABOUT THIS.]”

That sounded good to Traffic.

“[BUT BEFORE I CAN ALLOW YOU TO SELL YOUR CUBES I AM ALSO REQUIRED TO SEE YOUR INTERGALACTIC IDENTIFICATION CARDS. ALL THREE OF YOU.]”

And the trio took out their intergalactic id cards and showed them to the inspection officer. As they looked, their expression became more serious in nature.

“[YOU ARE ALL CYBERTRONIAN...]”

“[YES,]” Traffic replied. “[IS THAT A PROBLEM?]”

“[YOUR PEOPLE ARE AT WAR. CYBERTRONIANS CAUSE CHAOS WHEREVER THEY GO. YOUR PEOPLE HAVE A BAD REPUTATION AMONG A LOT OF ORGANIC RACES. DO YOU KNOW THIS?]”

“[WHAT CYBERTRON DID IN THE PAST WITH ORGANICS HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH US. _WE_ ARE NEUTRAL. PEACEFUL,]” Snaggletooth said.

“[WE ONLY WANT MONEY AND REST,]” Traffic added, smiling sweetly at the organic.

Despite knowing that the biomechanicals were unaffiliated with the war from Cybertron, their internalized skepticism never wavered.

“[VERY WELL. ENJOY YOUR STAY AT THIS FUELING STATION. BUT IF YOU CAUSE ANY PROBLEMS YOU WILL BE DETAINED BY ARMED GUARDS AND YOUR MERCHANDISE, INCLUDING YOUR SHIP, CONFISCATED UNTIL THE INTERGALACTIC COUNCIL IS CONTACTED AND DECIDE WHAT TO DO WITH YOU.]”

Traffic smiled again at the orange being.

“[DON’T WORRY. WE WON’T CAUSE ANY TROUBLE.]”

The inspection officer nodded and left them to do their business. As soon as they were out of earshot, her usual irritated look returned. She spat on the ground in spite of them.

“He makes my trigger finger _itchy,”_ she said.

Hearing that made Arsenal feel anxious.

* * *

After a few hours, all of the energon was sold and the trio of Cybertronians went back inside of the ship to count the currency they had made. 

Traffic loved money, and she loved making a slag _ton_ of it while selling energon. This was a good day, and there would be plenty for the three to split after deductions were made for the ship’s fuel and supply replenishment, etc.

But Traffic was also the self appointed captain of the vessel, and always took “the captain’s share,” leaving the other two mechs with not that much. But who were they to argue with Traffic? They knew better than to do that.

Traffic stayed on board the ship as the other two left to enjoy themselves before they would depart.

“Here,” Snaggletooth said, handing Arsenal a few credit slips of his own. Arsenal looked up at him with a puzzled look.

“What’s this for?” he asked.

“What do ya think it’s for? Go enjoy yourself.”

It wasn’t often that Snaggletooth showed kindness to Arsenal.

He blamed Traffic for that.

“Oh. Ok, thanks...” he said back, sounding monotone.

“There’s a bar right over there,” the beastformer said, pointing to an illuminated sign in Intergalactic Common that read ‘[DRINK HERE]’ above a facade. “The drinks at fueling stations aren’t that expensive so I don’t need a lot of money. That’s where I’ll be.”

Arsenal nodded and the two split up, with Snaggletooth headed towards the bar and Arsenal began looking for _someplace else._


	12. Mr. Wheeler's Spaceship

Medical supplies were sometimes hard to come by, especially with there being a war and all. The Satellite Space Station was lucky to get what it was able to. Most of the resources and products available for Cybertronians were dominated by either the Autobots or the Decepticons. 

The neutrals were doing their best despite this.

But Shortfuse was _furious._ This was the third week in a row that he would be going back to the Minor Surgery Center with only a roll of metal mesh gauze wrapping and some weak analgesic solution. It wasn’t enough, and he knew that those at the Hospital Unit had to know that as well. The nuclear warhead stormed off from the supplier’s station and made his way to see Torque.

* * *

Adjusting the reading spectacles on the bridge of her nose, Airstrike read over the report that Crowbar had sent to her. He had worked with formal police reports many, many times before, so she wasn’t surprised to see that everything was perfect. Perfect formatting, perfect grammar and syntax...even the perfect sign off.

Crowbar had addressed himself _as secretary._

She knew it wasn’t his preferred position, but she was always appreciative of his professionalism when handling the paperwork, so to speak. 

Now, if only his behavior while off the clock was just as reflective of such professionalism...

She was very much aware of his personal aspirations. There wasn’t a spark on the space station who hadn’t at least heard of the wannabe Autobot. She had also heard other things about Crowbar. Things she wouldn’t ask about in person. Airstrike didn’t want to embarrass him, as Crowbar was good at doing that all on his own.

Apparently, some of the other officers at the security department knew that Crowbar was an academy drop out and would pick on him about it when the motorcycle became a little _too_ assertive. Airstrike had her fair share of breaking up his squabbles and sitting him down for a disciplinary chat. 

Several people wondered why Airstrike still kept him around. The bottom line was, Crowbar was good at his job. He was an excellent secretary. He just had a few...quirks that she was slowly trying to help him work on.

And letting him work on this case was proving to be a good start.

* * *

Arsenal walked around the fueling station, looking for a very specific place. Most fueling stations had them, and they were pretty hard to miss. It wasn’t until he went towards the back half of the station that he found it. 

_ Platinum Star Pleasures. _

Traffic had her money, Snaggletooth had his engex and cygarettes, and Arsenal had his one night stands.

It was the only thing that was good enough to distract him from his life aboard Traffic’s ship. It was the only thing he spent his money on. There wasn’t anything else that he wanted to buy, really. Everything he had or ever knew was on that ship. That cursed ship filled with painful memories and traumatic realities. He hated it so very much, but when he was with his hired hooker for the evening, none of that mattered. None of it was real. 

It was his only form of escape.

The gunformer walked into the building, not making any optic contact with anyone coming or going. Some people were too tall or too short for him to do that with anyway. He approached the counter, looking as emotionally dead as ever.

The organic lifeform behind the counter looked up with him with a tired expression. He was a short, beefy, green-skinned orcish creature with a few cybernetic prosthetics. His hair was dark and oily, and was pulled back into a slick ponytail. Short, rounded tusks jutted from out of his mouth. 

“[WELCOME TO PLATINUM STAR PLEASURES. ARE YOU A FIRST TIME GUEST WITH US?]”

Arsenal wanted to laugh. It had been a very long time since his first time _anything._

“[NO, I’M NOT],” the mech replied. He took out his intergalactic i.d. And set it on the counter along with his Platinum Star Pleasures Platinum Membership Card.

The orc’s eyes lit up. 

This mechanoid was a _high paying_ customer! 

Immediately, his tired demeanor changed to something a little bit more charismatic. He looked at both the membership card and Arsenal’s i.d. Before handing them back to him.

“[IT SAYS THAT YOU’RE CYBERTRONIAN].”

“[...I AM.]”

Arsenal was waiting for this organic to hold some kind of contempt for him like the other one that had met him earlier when he had first arrived at the fueling station. He had heard the same stories over and over again about his people from oganics and biomechanicals alike. They all ended the same, with some kind of remark about how Cybertronians are just a thorn in the side of intergalactic life. 

By this point Arsenal had detached himself from Cybertron. The only “real” home he knew was on Traffic’s ship, and even that wasn’t something worth considering as a home. _It was a nightmare._ Living day in and day out, wondering if the hulking monster of a mech known as Traffic would abuse him for any trite reason.

They say that home is where the spark is, and Arsenal’s spark longed to be back at the Circuit Saloon, back with—

“You speak neocybex, kid?” the orcish man asked. 

Arsenal was taken aback. He had never heard a non-cybertronian speaking his own language before. The accent was definitely foreign, but very understandable.  He was a little impressed.

“Oh, uh. Yeah. Yeah, I do.”

The orc laughed heartily from his gut.

“Wonderful! I gotta say, I ain’t seen a Cybertronian walk int’a my Platinum Parl’a in some time! How’s my accent, kid? Is it good? Been a while since I’ve talked with a Transform’a.”

“Um, it’s...ok? Laid back, I guess.”

The orc snorted and nodded.

“Sounds good t’a me. So what’s your type? Who’a you lookin’ to spend some time with?”

_Finally,_ back to business…

“Do you have a catalog?” Arsenal asked. “I’d like to see it.”

“A’course I got a catalog! Bett’a yet, I got the Platinum Edition. Just for wise guys like you with the extra creds t’a spare,” he grinned.

Pressing a button under the counter, the top of it lit up like a computer screen, and a digital catalog of available pleasure models for platinum members was put on display.

“Since you’re a Transform’a, I’ve got one guy that might suit your fancy...”

A metal prosthetic forearm reached over the countertop and swiped the digital catalog, changing the model that was being projected. Several different workers flashed through his optics, all ranging between organics of various shapes and sizes to different races of biomechanicals.

The clerk stopped at one picture of a neon green mechanical being. The mech’s frame was decorated in bright green biolights.

“This is Night Light. He’s one’a those Cybertronians that don’t transform,” the organic began scratching his head. “What’re those called again...?”

Arsenal blushed.

“...Monoformers.”

“Yeah, that’s right! Monoform’as. Those guys are a real novelty. Rare, even. What’dya say? Are ya into monoform’as?”

Arsenal’s blush deepened.

“I-I’ll take one of your non-sentient droids,” he stammered, changing the subject immediately.

The orc sighed and shrugged his shoulders.

“If that’s what you really want...”

It wasn’t what Arsenal really wanted, but what he really wanted he couldn’t get where he was at, and part of him, deep inside of his spark, doubted he ever would.

* * *

Shortfuse barged into the Upper Satellite's Hospital Unit hotter than a tin of lava cookies. He went up to the reception desk, which was perfectly sized for minibots. It had to be, as the receptionist was a minibot.

“Hi, Doctor Shortfuse. How are you today?” the power cell asked.

“I’m angry, Trinket. Very angry,” the warhead responded.

“Oh, I’m sorry...” she frowned. Trinket didn’t like it when people got angry. She always did her best to make sure everyone was happy. But sometimes that’s hard to do, especially when working with the public. “Is there anything I can do to help?” she added.

“Yeah, is Torque around? I need to talk to him. _Right now.”_

Shortfuse’s expression remained furrowed and angry, but he could tell it was making the soft green mech a little nervous.

“Doctor Torque is consulting with a patient right now...but I’ll let him know you’re here,” she said.

Shortfuse gave a nod and grumbled away to the patient waiting area. His arms were crossed over his rounded chest and he tapped his foot. Patience wasn’t his thing. Made him antsy.  Serving in the Cybertronian Army can do that to a mech.

Several minutes had passed, and Shortfused was just about to drift off into sleep mode. It was relatively quiet in the hospital, mostly because of understaffing and lack of patients. The only people who came to the hospital were those who had serious or immediate ailments or injuries, and those were rare and few.

A door had opened in the back, and two mechs came out laughing, one of them being Doctor Torque.

“Now, make sure when y’all get there you grab me a souvenir,” the large tractor laughed. The other mech laughed and made their comment, while being herded over to the receptionist’s desk. “Trinket, darlin’, can I get a witness signature for this here travel slip?”

“Of course, doctor,” Trinket said softly. Torque smiled down at her as she signed the document, verifying that the other mech was medically approved for space travel. The tractor took the completed form and gave it to the traveler, who thanked the medic and left to go on their way. Torque waved them off and wished them safe travels.

“Doctor Torque,” Trinket began, “Doctor Shortfuse is here to see you.” The power cell gestured to the waiting area and the two medics made optic contact. Torque smiled brightly at the other minibot as he strode over. Shortfuse stood up from his chair to greet him.

“Howdy, Doc! What brings you to my neck of the woods?”

_ “My lack of medical supplies, that’s what.” _

Torque’s happy-go-lucky look lessened a little at Shortfuse’s tone.

“What do ya need? I can spare a few things,” the large mech offered

Like his receptionist, Torque also liked it best when people were happy and satisfied. He didn’t mind making compromises or mediating. Torque had a good spark and it burned brightly for others.

“What I need is equal distribution of supplies!” Shortfuse exclaimed, poking an angry digit into Torque’s shin plate.

Torque felt terrible. He couldn’t help how the supplies that were shipped to the space station were sorted and divided among the different departments.

“I’m sorry, Doc. There’s nothin’ I can do ‘bout that,” the tractor frowned. 

Shortfuse rolled his optics and scoffed.

_“For Primus’ sake,_ you’re the Head of Medicine!! You’re going to stand here and tell me that there’s nothing you can do?!?”

Torque sighed.

“Look, all I can offer is what I have available in the hospital’s storage room. I don’t make the executive decisions on who gets what when the supply ships come in. We should all be grateful for what we have, considerin’ the current war.”

It was here that Shortfuse bit his glossa. He knew all too well about wars and the scarcity of medical supplies that came with them. The minibot was a veteran, afterall.

Shortfuse took a deep ventilation and exhaled.

“Alright, you’ve made your point. Let me see what you—”

In the middle of his sentence, Shortfuse just so happened to look out the window. And who did see walking at a suspiciously quick pace?

_ Counterfeit. _

“On second thought,” Shortfuse corrected, “I’ll stop by later. Something’s come up and I need to find out what it is, exactly”

Torque gave a confused look, but he didn’t question Shortfuse’s statement.

“Oh, alright then. Come back anytime. I’ll be here.”

And with that, Shortfuse left the hospital unit and began following the monoformer from a distance.

* * *

Counterfeit walked the landing platform of the Upper Satellite until he found Wheeler’s Warehouse. 

It had been a while since he had been there.

Counterfeit walked into the small building. The shelves were lined with antiques and baubles, old devices that may or may not work, odds and ends, those sort of things. Counterfeit smiled fondly as he recalled his old manager telling him many millions of years ago that he had always dreamed of opening a shop of some kind. The wine colored mech was glad that things had worked out for Mr. Wheeler here on the space station.

Speaking of Mr. Wheeler, where was he?

_“Mr. Wheeler?”_ Counterfeit shouted. _“Are you in here?_

Rolling out of the supply closet came Mr. Wheeler himself. An old segway, half transformed from the waist down. He was a mustached mech, and looked very elegant for someone of his age.

Counterfeit smiled nervously as he waved at his old employer.

“Hey, Mr. Wheeler.”

Mr. Wheeler wasn’t one to express a lot of emotions. He had what some would call _“resting glitch face.”_ A very solemn fellow, this Mr. Wheeler.

“Hello, Counterfeit,” he said. “It’s been a long time since you last stopped by.”

Counterfeit chuckled nervously and held his hands behind his back in tight fists. There were so many things in here! He needed to make things quick before he found something that caught his interest.

_“Gosh, Mr. Wheeler,_ it sure has been. Listen, I kinda need a favor...”

“Oh? And what might that be?”

“Well, you see, uh..” Counterfeit cleared his vocalizer. Why was it so hard to talk to Mr. Wheeler? Ah, that’s right. It was because he was so stiff, so formal. “I need to borrow your ship, just for a few days...”

Mr. Wheeler raised an optical ridge.

“You want to borrow...my _ship…”_

“O-Only for a few days, a week tops! I promise to bring it back in perfect condition!”

Mr. Wheeler began to stroke his chin and pull at his metal goatee.

“Well, Counterfeit, I must say. I’m a little perplexed as to why, after all this time, you now decide to come into my warehouse asking to borrow the Cosmic Sunrise, my most _prized possession.”_

“I know, I know. This is really sudden for me, too. But it’s important.”

Mr. Wheeler gave the younger mech a concerned look.

“You’re not running from the law, are you?”

“What?! No, no!”

“That’s a relief,” the segway said flatly. “I’m a bit too old now to entertain your shenanigans like I used to.”

Counterfeit didn’t comment. 

_ The past was the past. _

“Going on a trip then?” Mr. Wheeler asked, attempting to lighten the mood.

“..More like a rescue mission.”

_ “A rescue mission?” _

Counterfeit nodded.

“Forgive my curiosity, but who exactly needs rescuing?”

And then Counterfeit began to tell Mr. Wheeler all that had happened. Him finding Arsenal, taking him to get patched up by Surge, Shortfuse getting him a job at the Circuit Saloon, being roommates and spending time together, Arsenal suddenly leaving out of nowhere, and the mysterious message asking Counterfeit for help.

_“I see,”_ Mr. Wheeler finally said, digesting everything that Counterfeit had just vented to him. “Well, then. Since you’re so keen on finding this friend of yours, what’s your plan of action, hm?”

Counterfeit paused for a moment.

“..What do you mean?”

Mr. Wheeler sighed.  He knew Counterfeit far too well.

“Always quick to act and not quick to think,” Mr. Wheeler tsked. Counterfeit folded his arms across his chest at the remark. The monoformer was beginning to get annoyed, which wasn’t uncommon when being around the older mech. “Don’t give me that look,” the segway continued. “Have I ever been wrong?”

“..No,” Counterfeit pouted.

“Right, then. I’ll ask you again. What is it that you’re going to do?”

Counterfeit was initially confused by the question. It sounded rhetorical. He thought it was very obvious what he had planned to do.

“I’m going to go get him. I’m going to go get Arnie and bring him back here.”

Mr. Wheeler sighed again.

“I understand that. Tell me _how.”_

“I was...going to travel out into space and look for him...”

The half transformed mech rolled away into one of the back rooms, leaving Counterfeit unattended in the lobby of the warehouse. While there were definite sounds of equipment being moved around in the background, Counterfeit’s optics began to scan the lobby. He told himself that it was ok to look around. There was no problem with just _looking_ at stuff…

_...Especially Mr. Wheeler’s datapad stylus that was sitting all alone on the checkout counter. _

How many times has he tried to take that one object from his old manager? More times than he could count. Mr. Wheeler knew, though. The old mech was good with numbers and kept up with such things.

The monoformer walked forward quietly, maneuvering past the shelves and tables of unique items, until he reached the back counter. From the sound of things, Mr. Wheeler was still looking for whatever it was that was being ever so elusive in the back room. 

Now was the perfect opportunity to swipe it.

As he reached for it, his anxieties began to bombard him with the same thoughts that usually accompanied his kleptomania. It wasn’t until after he had successfully taken Mr. Wheeler’s stylus and stuffed it quickly into his subspace that a new wave of anxiety washed over his mental circuitry.

It was a continuous cycle for him. Feeling anxious about taking something. Feeling anxious because he just took something. Feeling anxious about someone catching him in the act or figuring out later that it was him who had taken something. Feeling disgustingly guilty about what he had done when he went back to his room at the Circuit Saloon. Hating and beating himself up over his mental condition. Feeling anxious about going to see Airstrike about returning something _“he had found”_ into the lost and found that she had set up for him. And finally, feeling the growing dread and anxiety when it was all over disappearing, only to wait for the cycle to begin anew.

Counterfeit now wanted to leave and try to forget that once again he had taken something that wasn’t his. But Mr. Wheeler still hadn’t come out of the backroom that he was in, looking for whatever it was that was in there.

_“Is that a ‘no’ then?”_ Counterfeit hollered, hoping that the other mech had heard him so he could leave. But said mech wasn’t done with what he was doing, nor was he done with Counterfeit’s being there.

_“Stay right where you are,”_ was shouted back to him. _“Don’t move.”_

And Counterfeit didn’t.

_ “And put back my stylus back where you found it.” _

...And Counterfeit did.

* * *

“Good work, Crowbar. Excellent job.”

Crowbar’s spark began to swell in his chest. She had given him casual praises before, the usual ones that most employers gave to their employees. 

But this was different. 

_Much,_ much different. 

This was something he was doing as himself, not as the Satellite's Department of Security’s Secretary.

“Thank you, Airstrike,” he replied, pausing for a moment before continuing. “So, what happens next?”

“I’m glad you asked that, because I was just about to ask you the same thing.”

Crowbar’s optics blinked.

_ Huh? _

“What do you think should happen next, Crowbar?” the seeker continued. “What would you do?”

Crowbar swallowed hard. Airstrike had asked him a question, and it was his duty to give her an appropriate answer. But he couldn’t help the overwhelming sense of pride that was flowing through his spark. He was still being allowed to work on this case, as if he was an actual member of the police force. 

_ Like an Autobot. _

“I would...” Crowbar straightened his composure, and held his helm up high. “I’d go back to Counterfeit. Ask him about his past, his allies, or former acquaintances.”

The corners of Airstrike’s mouth began to turn into a slight smile as she listened to her secretary, nodding.

“With this being a matter of security, we shouldn’t rule anything or anyone out,” he concluded.

“Very well put, Crowbar,” the security chief responded. “That being said—”

“...He could be a _Decepticon.”_

Airstrike stopped, her expression...unamused.

“...That was a joke...”

Airstrike sighed internally and thanked Primus.

_“Very funny,”_ she replied sarcastically. “As I was saying, following up with Counterfeit is ideal, especially with the situation being as fresh as it is. Time is critical, and we cannot afford to waste it.” 

Crowbar nodded, agreeing with every word she spoke. The jet opened her mouth to continue, but she was being interrupted by the sound of her office door opening. One of the younger officers, about Crowbar’s age, poked his helm through the parted doorway.

“Thank you for _knocking._ What is it, Scooter?” Airstrike asked.

“Sorry, boss. But, uh, Crowbar’s got a call on the main line.”

“He’s a bit busy at the moment,” she replied. “If you’re not doing anything perhaps you could fill in for him as a temporary secretary again.”

“Well, the way the guy was talking it sounded like a personal call.”

Immediately, Crowbar’s optics flickered and his spark pulsed.

_ "Radar?" _

* * *

Counterfeit stood outside of Mr. Wheeler’s Warehouse, tapping his pede. He was usually a rather patient mech, but today was not a day to be patient.

The monoformer looked up, and his optics began to drift across the dim flickers of far away stars. Somewhere out there, Arsenal was waiting for him. 

_Needing him._

The mech then placed his hand over his spark. There was a feeling in there that he hadn’t felt before. It was a strong feeling, slightly overwhelming, yet it was comforting. Thinking about Arsenal brought this feeling, so he knew it had to be a good one.

He liked Arsenal _a lot._

They were friends. They were co-workers. They were roommates.

They were—

_“Son,_ what are you _doing?”_

Counterfeit’s stargazing and brief introspection came to an abrupt halt at the voice. He looked around, then down to see Shortfuse looking up at him.

“O-Oh! Hey, Shortfuse! I was just, uh...waiting.”

The medic raised and optical ridge and folded his arms.

“You were... _waiting...?”_

Counterfeit nodded.

“Yup.”

“Ok, I’ll bite. Who or _what_ are you waiting for?”

Before Counterfeit could go into his spiel about the recent turn of events, the sudden sound of a motorcycle pulling up caught both mechs’ attention. Crowbar Transformed just as quick.

“Sorry I’m late,” Crowbar apologized, “Traffic is _terrible_ this time of day.”

_“HIM?!?”_ Shortfuse shouted.

“I know, I’m not the most exciting person to see rolling up,” Crowbar confessed. 

Shortfuse half-laughed at the remark.

“You can say _that_ again,” Shortfuse said.

“It’s inside,” Counterfeit interrupted. The larger mech lead the way into the shop, with Shortfuse making up the rear.

“Can someone _PLEASE_ tell me what the hell is going on?!” he shouted.

“Only if you promise not to yell in my business, please and _thank you.”_

The attention was brought to Mr. Wheeler, who was cleaning up a rather odd looking thing. A small, antique looking device that looked as if it hadn’t been used in centuries.

Shortfuse bit his tongue. His mood was changing fast and he was getting more and more irritated by the second. Something was going on and he didn’t know what. But knowing that Counterfeit was involved, and Crowbar as well, he wasn’t feeling too optimistic. 

_“Now,”_ Mr. Wheeler began, “Counterfeit tells me you’ve got a signal you can’t track.”

Crowbar nodded, staring at the device Counterfeit had mentioned over the earlier call. He had never seen anything like it before. It certainly looked old and antique like...

Needless to say, Crowbar had his doubts about it’s efficacy.

“Well,” the segway continued, “I’ve got just the thing. _This,”_ he said, giving the object a gentle pat, “is—”

“It’s a Signal Positioning System. Used during the Organic War Period on Cybertron,” Shortfuse explained as soon as he saw it. The nuclear warhead began to chuckle. “I haven’t seen one of those in forever. ”

All optics turned to the minibot.

“What? I’m old.”

“That makes two of us,” Mr. Wheeler retorted. “But yes, that is exactly what this is.”

“Weren’t those deemed illegal by the Galactic Council under the Intergalactic Espionage Act?” Crowbar asked hesitantly.

“Are you insinuating that I horde _contraband_ in my warehouse?” asked Mr. Wheeler with a menacing aura.

“N-No…! I just, I remember reading about it at the academy...”

Shortfuse began to laugh at the younger mech’s response.

“Well, maybe if had you stayed a little longer you would’ve learned that SPS’s were legalized after a modified version was introduced for commercial use.”

_“Precisely,”_ Mr. Wheeler agreed.

“So...which version is this one?” Counterfeit asked.

“Neither,” Mr. Wheeler stated. “It’s a prototype. _The original.”_

_“Well, I’ll be damned._ How’s you get your hands on that, Wheeler?” Shortfuse asked, rather impressed.

“I have my sources. Consider me a _collector,_ if you will.”

He says ‘collector,’ others would say _‘hoarder...’_

“Hey, say no more. I’m ex-military, so I know when not to ask any more questions,” the minibot laughed.

Mr. Wheeler laughed as well.

“Much appreciated,” the other mech replied.

“Not to interrupt such _riveting_ conversation,” Crowbar began, sarcastically, “but I’d like to get back to the task at hand.”

“Yes, right,” said Mr. Wheeler, taking the device into his hands. He rolled himself out from behind the counter and approached Crowbar, handing the motorcycle the SPS unit.

“Take this mysterious signal Counterfeit told me about and reroute it into the device. After installing it into my ship’s computer console, it should be able to guide you to wherever the signal originated.”

“Ok, now _hold on,”_ Shortfuse interrupted. He looked at Counterfeit. “Are you _leaving?”_

Counterfeit nodded slowly.

“I am,” the monoformer replied.

“But he won’t be going alone,” Crowbar added, “I’m going with him.”

Shortfuse rolled his optics and huffed.

“As if that makes things any better,” Shortfuse grumbled.

“Shortfuse, let me explain,” Counterfeit offered, only to be stopped by the medic.

“You can explain on the way there,” the medic said. _“I’m going with you.”_

* * *

Surge had gone back into his room. He was lying on his berth.

With both Counterfeit and Shortfuse away from the small clinic, he was alone.

_ In more ways than one. _

The power cell initiated an internal command and his chest plating began to transform away, leaving only his bare spark. He took his servo and placed it over it. He could feel the fragments of Gizmo and Doodad’s spark flicker and kiss over his finger tips.

He sighed, feeling a wave of emotion begin to flow over him.

Suddenly, there was a knock at his door, and Surge immediately closed his chest panels tightly once again.

He got up and opened the door, hoping to see Counterfeit standing there.

But it was Shortfuse.

“Surge, I need you to watch the clinic for a few days. Maybe a week.”

Surge’s optics blinked behind his visor. This was...very unexpected.

“...Where are you _going?”_ the power cell asked, following the clinic’s head medic to where the small storage room was.

Shortfuse made a strained groaning sound.

“Counterfeit has _somehow_ gotten himself involved in a rescue mission for Arsenal, to make a long story short.”

Surge said nothing, watching the minibot forge together a travel medic’s kit.

“...So, you’re going with him?” he asked, finally breaking the short silence.

“Of course I am,” he confirmed. “That Crowbar fella is going with him, and I’ll be a pile of _scrap_ _metal_ before I let that pair of morons venture out into space all by themselves.”

Again, Surge said nothing, taking some time to process what was being told to him.

“Are you leaving, like, _right now?”_

“After everyone gets their physicals done and travel slips signed by Torque we’ll be off. Wheeler’s getting his ship ready as we speak. You remember Wheeler, right?”

Surge folded his arms and put on a cross look.

“That mech who kicked Counterfeit to the curb after they arrived on the Satellite? Leaving Counterfeit homeless until you found him in that alleyway?”

“That’s the one,” said Shorfuse. “But that was a long, long time ago, Surge. They’ve moved past that,” he added.

Even so, Surge still held onto that minor grudge. He remembered how angry Counterfeit was. He was a different person then. Not the cheery, warm-sparked smiler most people knew him as now.

_ Surge still held onto a lot of things. _

“Like I said,” Shortfuse began, “It’s not going to be a long trip,” the warhead assured.

“I..”

Several things crossed Surge’s mind and spark. He didn’t know what to say. He didn’t know what he was trying to say. But the older mech could sense some uncertainty from the younger and went over to him, tucking away the medical kit into his subspace. He gave him a firm pat on the shoulder and gave it an endearing squeeze.

“You’ll be alright, son. You’re a good medic.”

Surge smiled a little, despite what he was currently feeling.

* * *

Shortfuse ex-vented as he sat on one of the crates inside of the Circuit Saloon’s storage room, wiping himself off before any stains could set in.

“Was that quick enough for ya, Shorty?” Cassette asked. The shorter mech laughed a little, feeling another wave of heat rising to his faceplates.

“...When I get back to the station I’m going to need to longer version of _that.”_

Cassette giggled.

“Pressed all the right buttons, did I?” she asked smugly.

“As if you don’t do that _every time,”_ he said back to her. She just smiled as she bent over to kiss him. He took her hand into his.

“I’ll be back before you know it.”

“You better,” she said. “Or I’ll kick your aft.”

Shortfuse chuckled as he pressed her knuckle joints to his lips and kissed them.

“I promise, Settie.”

* * *

Counterfeit and Crowbar waited in the lobby of the small hospital unit. They had just finished being seen by Doctor Torque. The pair had been examined and approved for space travel, and their medical slips were signed by the medic and his secretary. All that was left was waiting for Shortfuse to be seen and they would be off.

_ There was a very awkward silence between the two of them. _

Crowbar, who most people tried to avoid, didn’t have very good _“people skills.”_

Being social wasn’t his thing.

Counterfeit, on the other hand, was very social. However, sitting next to Crowbar knowing that he had just taken something from Torque’s turned back strut had made him feel a little nervous. But he decided that maybe some conversation could lighten the mood.

“You sounded kinda disappointed when I called you earlier...”

“What?” Crowbar asked, not knowing what he was talking about. But suddenly, it dawned on him. “Oh, um...I just…I thought you would be someone else calling me, that’s all.”

Counterfeit turned and looked at Crowbar, who was staring at the floor.

He looked really sad.

“Oh,” Counterfeit said, starting to twiddle his thumbs. “A friend of yours?”

Crowbar then began to smile, but his optics still flickered with sorrow.

“No,” Crowbar answered, pausing for a brief moment, “my boyfriend.”

Counterfeit’s optics began to twinkle, and he playfully nudged Crowbar with his elbow.

“Well, look at you, mister Hotwheels!”

Crowbar laughed a little at the remark.

“So, who is it?” the monoformer continued.

Taking out his personal data pad, Crowbar quickly pulled up an image of him next to Radar, the taller mech kissing him on the cheek.

_“Radar,”_ Crowbar said sweetly.

Counterfeit’s face immediately lit up.

“Oh, wow! The Head of Communications and Technology! He’s a big shot, isn’t he? How long have you two been together?”

“A while now,” Crowbar sighed. “A couple million years or so.” He then reached into his subspace and took out a small vial of his own innermost energon. “The next time I see him...I’m going to ask him to be my Conjunx Endura. I’ve waited long enough, and I’m sure he has, too.”

Counterfeit beamed as Crowbar put the vial back into his subspace. He was happy for Crowbar. It must be nice to have someone like that, someone to love in such a way that you want to give them _your own energon._

Counterfeit wondered if maybe one day he’d have someone like that.

Being a monoformer, people usually had one of two initial thoughts about you. You were either looked down upon for being “useless and untransformable,” or as a novelty. For most of his life, Counterfeit was accustomed to the former rather than the later of that statement. But he never let that drag him down. He hoped that when people looked at him, they saw his spark first.

And that’s what Shortfuse saw on that fateful day when he found him alone in the alleyway. He was reminded of this as he saw the minibot enter the hospital and walk towards him and Crowbar.

“Got your slips?” he asked.

“Yep!” Counterfeit replied, giving the other a bright smile. 

Crowbar gave a silent nod.

“Good. Now wait here while I get looked over. Shouldn’t take too long.”

And it didn’t. Doctor Torque gave Shortfuse his physical and ok’d him for space travel. He did, however, make a few comments about oiling his joints more often, but Shortfuse brushed them off. He was doing just fine for a mech his age.

So there they were, Counterfeit, Crowbar, and Shortfuse, all having the proper medical examinations done with the paperwork to match. 

They were ready to go.

* * *

“There’s enough fuel to last a few weeks, just as a precaution, but don’t go wasting it,” Mr. Wheeler said sternly.

“We won’t,” Counterfeit assured.

“Alright then,” the half transformed segway nodded.

Counterfeit approached his old manager and extended his hand.

“Thank you, Mr. Wheeler,” he said softly.

Mr. Wheeler smiled a bit and returned the gesture, taking his old employee’s hand into his own and giving it a firm shake.

“You’re a good mech, Counterfeit. You always were.”

Counterfeit smiled bashfully, then turned to go take his position in the pilot’s seat of the Cosmic Sunrise. Crowbar had already acquainted himself with the passenger’s chair, and was busy affixing the Signal Positioning System into the main computer console of Mr. Wheeler’s ship. There was only one last step before they could take off, and that was to download the data that had been sent to the Satellite’s Signal Receiver into the device.

“It shouldn’t take long,” Crowbar said, reaching up to his helm and initiating a hailing frequency to the Communications and Technology Building.

As Counterfeit got adjusted in the pilot's chair and began to familiarize himself with the small vessel’s bells and whistles, Shortfuse loaded additional bottles of engex and cubes of consumable energon gifted to him from Cassette into the back of the craft.

After finishing yet another brief call with Synchron and thanking him just as briefly, he turned to look at the other two.

“Alright, gentlemech, in a few minutes we should be ready for takeoff. The SPS is downloading the file now.”

“Let me just, uh, see if I remember how to fly this thing...” said Counterfeit, a little nervously. It had been quite some time since he had flown a transport vehicle. But after a few moments, his mechanical muscle memory started kicking in and he began switching switches and pushing buttons. Suddenly, the Cosmic Sunrise hummed to life, and the entire ship was now fully powered on. Counterfeit smiled wildly in excitement.

He was ready to go.

He was ready to pilot a ship again.

He was ready to see _Arsenal_ again.

He was ready to...to see Surge running towards the ship?

The taller mech reset his optics just to make sure he was seeing things right.

Which he was.

_“Surge..?”_ he questioned aloud.

“Don’t worry, he’ll be watching the clinic while we’re gone,” said an unaware Shortfuse.

“No, I mean, he’s coming this way...” he clarified.

Crowbar turned and looked out of his window to see that yes, the power cell was indeed running towards them.

Shortfuse stood up from where he had gotten himself comfortable in the back of the Cosmic Sunrise and slid open the side door that was behind Crowbar.

And there was Surge, bracing himself on his knee joints and venting hard.

“Son, what are you doin’ up here?” asked Shortfuse.

“...You...forgot something,” the other minibot huffed.

Shortfuse gave him a confused look. He was sure he hadn’t forgotten anything.

Perhaps his age was catching up to his mental circuitry.

“What’d I forget?”

_ “Me.” _

* * *

After the group finally got situated inside of the Cosmic Sunrise, the internal takeoff sequence began.

_**Ten**_

“The file transfer is complete,” Crowbar announced.

_**Nine** _

“Alright!” Counterfeit exclaimed. “Is everyone’s seat magnetism functioning properly?”

_**Eight** _

“Yep.”

_**Seven** _

“Uh-huh.”

_**Six** _

“Actually, I think mine’s a little—”

_**Five** _

“Shut up, Crowbar.”

_**Four** _

“Hold on to your helms,” Counterfeit laughed, “my takeoffs can be a little bumpy...”

_**Three** _

Counterfeit smiled as he looked through the translucent panel and stared off into space.

_**Two** _

Arsenal was out there.

_**One** _

And he was going to bring him home.

**_Zero_ **


	13. The People You Thought You Knew

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: This chapter contains graphic gun violence and blood. Please be cautious while reading if you are sensitive to these subjects.

“TILT YOUR HEAD BACK, _TILT YOUR HEAD BACK!!”_ yelled shortfuse. Crowbar did as he was instructed, cupping his pointed nose with his left hand, containing the energon that was attempting to gush from it. The faulty magnetism of Crowbar’s seat had knocked him into the passenger side console upon Counterfeit’s rough take-off.

_“Oughhhh,”_ Crowbar groaned. “I feel lightheaded..”

“You’ll be fine,” Shortfuse said flatly, taking a gently used rag from his subspace. “Here.”

Crowbar turned around in his seat, saw the gesture, and took the rag.

“...Thanks.”

Shortfuse grunted and got settled back into his own.

“I’m sorry, Crowbar,” Counterfeit frowned. He felt really bad. He didn’t mean for Crowbar to get hurt..

“It’s alright,” the motorcycle said, wiping away the energon. “I’ll just make a note to have the vehicle properly inspected after we get back. For maintenance purposes, obviously.”

“Uhhh, I dunno if you should do that,” Counterfeit replied nervously. ”Mr. Wheeler might not appreciate that...” 

“Why? It’s not stolen, is it?” Crowbar asked with concern.

Counterfeit cleared his vocalizer.

“H-How about we listen to some tunes?” the monoformer blurted out, changing the subject quickly. He pressed a few buttons and turned a dial, and soon the cabin of the cruiser began to fill with some soft, instrumental music.

Surge had heard this song before. It was one that he had slow-danced with Gizmo to. He remembered it like it happened just the other day.

* * *

“You know the clinic is closed, right?

Startled, Surge almost dropped the dust rag he was holding. He turned. Standing at the doorway was Gizmo, the power cell that he worked with. He acknowledged her presence, but promptly returned to cleaning off the lab equipment.

“Yeah,” he said back to her. Gizmo chuckled as she walked into the room, making her way towards him.

“Then you also know you don’t have to keep working.”

Surge hummed an affirmative note, but kept cleaning the equipment. Gizmo leaned up against the table that held the medical instrument, watching the other power cell continue. A minute had gone by before Surge had stopped to look at the pink mech. 

She was just _looking_ at him. 

And it made him feel nervous.

“..Is there something you need?” he finally asked.

“Just wanted to talk a little,” she answered back.

“About what?”

“About _you,”_ Gizmo said, almost suggestively. 

Surge could’ve laughed.

“What _about_ me?”

Gizmo grinned.

_ “Are you single?” _

Immediately, a rush of energon flooded into the fuel lines under his face. He looked away from her flirtatious gaze and returned to his off-duty task, putting more effort into it as a distraction. Gizmo just chuckled.

“My bad, my bad. Didn’t mean to embarrass ya.”

“I-It’s fine,” he stuttered. “..But yes. I am.”

“Oh, ok,” she nodded, watching the other power cell go back to work. 

“You wanna _mingle?”_

He stopped to look at her, his cheek plates still flushed with energon.

“I...” he began, not really knowing what to say. “I thought you were with Doodad.”

“What makes you say that?” she asked with a tone.

“The constant flirting, the aft grabs, _the paint transfers...”_

“I was being sarcastic,” she laughed.

“Oh.”

“I’m asking for a friend,” she clarified.

_ Oh…! _

“I, uh...I dunno,” he shrugged. “I just got out of a bad relationship some time ago, a-and..”

“Hey, you don’t have to explain yourself to me,” said Gizmo. “All I’m saying is, _if you’re interested,_ I know someone who thinks you’re fine as hell.”

Surge couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Someone thinking _he_ was fine as hell? 

Impossible. 

Not him. Not some generic, workaholic power cell like him.

_“Really...”_ Surge said, disbelievingly.

“Oh, yeah,” the pink mech replied. “He literally will not shut up about you.”

Surge blushed again while adding more cleaning solution to the rag.

“...What does he say?”

Gizmo smiled as she watched Surge fight back his own grin.

“Let’s see,” she started, “he talks about your hands a lot. Like, _a lot._ Oh, and he wants you to kiss him, that’s for damn sure.” Gizmo then laughed. “I’m not doing him any justice. He’s much more descriptive when he talks about you.”

Had Surge an engine, it would’ve revved in excitement. The thought of someone having those kinds of thoughts about him was...not something he considered often.

“Ok, so are you gonna tell me who he is or are you going to make me guess?”

Gizmo raised an optical ridge behind her visor.

“So you _are_ interested..”

“I mean...it depends on who it is..."

“It’s Doodad.”

Surge’s optic flashed.

_ “Doodad?!” _

“Yeah,” Gizmo nonchalantly replied. “He was too shy to come to you so he asked me to instead.”

Surge’s spark fluttered just a little bit. He couldn’t deny that he had thought Doodad was a very cute mech. Very cute, very silly….very, uh, _ditzy_ at times, but all around a good mech.

“...And you’re cool with that?” he asked.

“Sure, yeah,” she said. “I’m cool with it. Well, a little more than just cool with it,” she admitted.

Surge stopped cleaning and set the cloth down on the table. He was now giving Gizmo his undivided attention. She noticed, and continued.

“We’ve actually been discussing the idea of a third for a while,” she said.

He was listening to what she was saying, but part of him still couldn’t believe it. She wanted to be with him, _too?_

“Wait, hold on,” he interrupted. _“You...?”_

She didn’t even let him finish his question, as she had already dimmed her visor to show him her optics more clearly.

_ Gizmo winked at Surge. _

The power cell’s spark crackled in his chest. He couldn’t deny his attraction to Gizmo. She was cool, confident, and so suave it could make any mech swoon. 

_Especially_ Surge.

But the catbot had gotten his glossa, and he found himself unable to give an adequate response.

_ Mostly because he was afraid he’d stutter. _

Fortunately for him, Gizmo continued leading their conversation, and her actions were speaking loud and clear. She slid her hand across the edge of the table towards him, palm up. He paused for a moment, his mind going back and forth with pros and cons of the situation. Most of the cons came from the hurt of his previous relationship, but the pro that spoke the loudest said,

_ ‘It’s time to move on.’ _

Hesitantly, he took his hand and placed it on top of Gizmo’s. It was warm, and her digits curled comfortably around his servo. She gently pulled it towards her lips and planted a soft kiss on his knuckle joints.

Surge watched as her visor darkened again and she lifted herself properly back onto her pedes. She began to walk towards the exit, feeling confident that she had gotten her points across. She didn’t want to push anything. Gizmo knew that she could be a little on the intimidating side if she was being too forward about her intentions, or in this case, the intentions of both herself and Doodad. She decided that she’d let Surge take the lead now. He was free to decline their offer, and she’d understand if he did.

She had watched him work for some time now. He was indeed a workaholic. He had a great work ethic, and she wondered if he would feel like dating coworkers would be a hindrance to his job performance. 

“Hey...”

_ But then again, maybe not. _

She turned just before she reached the metal door. Surge had pulled out his new personal datapad and was fiddling with it. After a moment, some soft, instrumental music began to play.

“...Do you want to dance?” he asked.

Gizmo smiled.

* * *

Arsenal had finished his business with the Platinum Star Pleasures outlet and headed back out onto the fueling station’s main platform. There were several stalls and vendors of various sizes, shapes, colors, and species. Each one he passed called out to him, wanting the gunformer to come and buy something. Little did they know, he didn’t have much currency left on him. Most of it he had just spent on a quick _stress relief._

He had a little bit of change left, however, and he figured he’d give it back to Snaggletooth.

He thought about that as he walked to the bar where he knew the gatormech would be. About the small kindness he did of giving him some extra money. Was it some kind of _peace offering?_ A means to make amends for all the drunken yelling and verbal abuse he had been dealt with? 

_“Maybe so, ”_ he thought.

But that train of thought shifted tracks as he walked into the bar. 

It was rowdy. There were all kinds of people from different walks of life, organic, mechanical, a mix of the two, singing songs and dancing drunkenly together. It was a comforting sight. It was almost like...like he was back at the Circuit Saloon. 

Oh, how that realization made his spark ache _terribly._

He missed being at the Saloon. He missed working there. He missed the generous customers that tipped him well and treated him like he was a person. He missed the monotony of working shifts. He missed Cassette.

And Surge. And Shortfuse.

...And Counterfeit.

He missed his smile. And the funny jokes he’d tell. And listening to him go on and on about piloting ships and traveling through space back in the day. And the different stories of things he had seen or heard while having to walk everywhere. And how he’d walk slower intentionally so he could keep up with him. And the way he looked at him.

Arsenal missed Counterfeit.

* * *

Snaggletooth had just finished his third cheap shot of engex. Tasted terribly. But hey, it was better than nothing. Which, had the day’s profit been any less, that’s exactly what he would have gotten.

Nothing.

He figured it best not to blow all his credits on actual good engex. He wanted some more cygarettes for the road, and he thought he saw a vendor outside selling some that he liked. He decided to check it out after he was finished drinking. He quickly downed the last shot he had ordered and was about to stand up to leave when he saw Arsenal walk in through the door.

_“Aw, cripes...is it time to go?”_ he muttered under his breath, watching as the smaller mech was looking around. Snaggletooth growled as he thought about having to get back onto a ship with Traffic. 

He was too sober to start dealing with _her_ again.

But as Arsenal finally saw him, he tried to swallow down his anger with the remaining tastes of his drink.

Arsenal, the mech of few words that he was, approached the booth and set the change down on the table.

“...Thanks,” he said.

Snaggletooth’s optics blinked. He wasn’t expecting to get any change back...let alone a _‘thank you.’_ He was almost touched by the small gesture, but whatever feeling that brought to his spark, it was quickly snuffed out by an overwhelming guilt.

“R-Right. Well...you’re welcome,” he said back. 

They looked at each other for a moment, not really saying anything. Suddenly, Arsenal had decided that the awkward moment was over and had turned to leave. He had said what he wanted to say to the makeshift medic and felt that was good enough.

“Wait a second, _wait a second,”_ he heard Snaggletooth say behind him. He turned back around and saw the beastformer take the change and count it, along with some extra he had pulled out of his subspace. “...Let me, uh, buy you a drink. How’s that sound, yeah?”

Arsenal stared blankly at him. He wasn’t a drinker, mostly because nothing he drank could make him hammered enough to forget anything. 

He wanted to decline. He didn’t really like Snaggletooth and the idea of spending time with him made him feel a little...strange.

But then he looked at his optics.

They looked sad, and lonely.

Arsenal wondered if that was what his own optics looked like when Counterfeit had found him on that fateful day in the alley.

He sat down on the rounded seat cushion, giving adequate space between himself and Snaggletooth. 

* * *

Arsenal had ordered himself a small cube of engex with some bubbly additives mixed in. Snaggletooth had done the same, just to make things easier on the barkeep. They both took a sip and were not impressed. It tasted just like the price, which was to be expected.

Snaggletooth cleared his vocalizer.

“I don’t remember the last time we had a drink together...”

“We never have,” Arsenal replied, short and bittersweet. Snaggletooth made an affirmative sound in his throat and took another sip. Arsenal did the same.

“Look, Arsenal...”

“You don’t have to say anything,” the grey mech interrupted, looking down into his drink.

Snaggletooth grunted in frustration.

“You’re right, I _don’t_ have to say anything,” he began, _“but I want to.”_

Arsenal looked up from his drink to look at Snaggletooth. He held his glass to his lips and was staring off onto some fixed point in the bar.

“It’s ok,” Arsenal said. He had a feeling this would be some kind of awkward apology, and he wanted to spare them both the uncomfortableness of having to sit through it.

“No, it’s _not,”_ Snaggletooth replied. His voice was low and somber. “Nothing about what any of us do is ok.”

Arsenal couldn’t argue with that.

“The way you’re treated isn’t ok,” Snaggletooth continued. “...The things I say to you aren't ok.”

Arsenal hung his head down a little, studying the glass in his hand as some kind of distraction.

“...I’m sorry, Arsenal.”

It was an apology he thought he’d ever get. It made his spark feel weird. Arsenal was receiving a surge of mixed emotions. It would probably take some time for him to process them, but if there was one thing he knew for certain, it was how genuine Snaggletooth was making himself right now.

Forgiveness is a long process. It takes time before there’s any kind of closure. Arsenal wasn’t ready to say _‘I forgive you,’_ because he wasn’t there yet. Instead, he decided to say something that he didn’t think he’d say himself to Snaggletooth, but he felt the need to say it. It was a good time to do so, and he was unsure of when he’d ever get another chance to.

“I’m sorry, too,” he said softly.

Snaggletooth gave him a confused look. All Arsenal ever did aboard the ship was cower or cry.

“For what?” the beastformer asked.

_ “...For what she does to you...” _

A wave of strong emotions overcame Snaggletooth. He didn’t...he didn’t know Arsenal knew about _that._ What would have normally turned into a brushed off comment or an angry tirade against the smaller mech took the form of heavily lubricated optics. 

Arsenal personally didn’t like it when others saw him upset, and he thought that maybe Snaggletooth, being the “cold” and “very rough around the edges” mech as he had made himself out to be, wanted a moment to collect himself. So, he got up and left, leaving the medic alone with his dignity.

However much Traffic had left him with.

* * *

As time went by during the course of their journey out into space, Surge thought more about some of the faded memories of his deceased spouses. He wasn’t much for conversation, unlike the other three in the cargo ship, so he sat quietly, thinking to himself about the past. But Surge’s reminiscing was cut short by the sound of the Signal Positioning System. Immediately, Shortfuse’s attention was grabbed. 

_ He knew that sound. _

“Wow! We must be getting close!” Counterfeit exclaimed, a bright smile stretching across his face. His spark began to tingle in his chest. 

The minibot doctor wasn’t smiling, though. He leapt out of his seat and leaned over between the taller mechs, optics fixated on the device that was connected into the console of the craft. 

Sensing that something was off, Crowbar spoke up.

“What’s wrong?”

Shortfuse furrowed his optical ridges.

“There’s someone there. Someone _close.”_

Counterfeit checked the radar screen on the main console of the vehicle. As far as he could tell, they weren’t anywhere near another vessel.

“Are you sure about that, Shortfuse?” the monoformer asked. “I’m not seeing anything on the radar...”

“Maybe the signal tracker needs a new battery,” the power cell joked.

“No,” said Shortfuse. “It’s a cloaking alert. We can’t see them.”

“I-Impossible!” Crowbar stammered, his spark fritzing with anxiety. “We’re still in neutral space territory. Cloaking is only permitted in authorized military and sanctioned war zones.”

“Well, I hate to break it to ya, but some people don’t like to play by the rules,” said the warhead. 

“So, what should we do?” Surge asked aloud.

“Given this unknown threat I say we turn around and contact the Intergalactic Council of Allied Races, as protocol would dictate.” Crowbar suggested.

_“Bah,”_ Shortfuse objected, “they don’t give a cyberrat’s afterburner about Cybertronians. I wouldn’t be surprised if they’ve left our Intergalactic Representative out to rust given the current war with our kind...”

“Well, I say we keep going,” Counterfeit spoke up. “I...We’ve gotten this far, and...and I don’t want to give up just yet...!”

Counterfeit spoke as if a beacon of hope against the darkness of uncertainty. His spark burned in his chest, flickering bright with determination. He was unsure of if he believed in destiny, but as he looked out into the expanse of space before him, he could feel something. Something was calling out to him.

_**“Help me, Counterfeit.”** _

_ It was Arsenal. _

“Alright,” Shortfuse began, sitting back down into his seat, “You’re the pilot.”

Crowbar quickly shot Counterfeit a hard look.

“This is ill advised...! We need to do this right or there could be severe consequences!”

The monoformer’s spark sank. Crowbar was using that same tone of voice he always used when trying to reprimand him. It made him feel bad. It made him feel bad about himself. But this wasn’t about him. 

This was about _Arsenal._

Counterfeit turned to Crowbar, sitting just a bit taller now, and gave him a stern look.

“..Crowbar,” Counterfeit started, _“be quiet.”_

The motorcycle, initially wide-optic’d at being stood up to by the monoformer like that, huffed and folded his arms over his chest and looked out of his passenger side window.

_“Fine,”_ he spat bitterly, “but if something happens, don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

Surge began to chuckle.

“If we see any Decepticons we’ll say you told us s—”

Before Surge could finish his sarcastic remark, the Cosmic Sunrise bellowed with a hard, thunderous, crashing sound. Immediately, the craft lost all power, and began to spin out. The main console, along with the Signal Positioning System prototype, sparked uncontrollably. Counterfeit pulled hard at the steering peripheral, trying to gain as much control over the ship as he could. After a few moments, the Cosmic Sunrise stopped spinning and gently floated.

Counterfeit’s hand went under the pilot’s side console and he flipped a switch. The lights inside of the cargo ship were now an unfriendly red color. The monitor sitting between Counterfeit and Crowbar now had a weak visual, but it was indicating a brief damage report. 

_ Barely... _

“Is everyone alright?!” Shortfuse shouted.

“What was _that?!?”_ Crowbar screeched.

“I’m ok,” Counterfeit said sorrowfully. 

He wanted to cry. His mind raced with pessimistic thoughts.

He felt like Arsenal was now slipping further and further away…

“Please say _‘an asteroid’_ or something,” Surge groaned, rubbing his helm where it had hit the back of his seat.

“Feels like an EMP blast,” Shortfuse said.

“Does this thing have its own comm frequency? I need to call Airstrike,” Crowbar announced.

“It does, but I dunno how far it’ll go while we’re in emergency power mode,” Counterfeit confirmed.

“Try hailing our assailant,” Shortfuse suggested instead. “If we tell them we’re neutrals maybe they’ll let us go about our business.”

Crowbar scoffed at that.

“I am _not_ a neutral…!”

“IF IT MEANS SAVING OUR IRON HIDES THEN YOU’RE GOING TO BE THE MOST NEUTRAL BOT HERE, _UNDERSTAND?!”_

Crowbar was about to make a quick remark, but the Cosmic Sunrise was hit with another EMP blast, shutting down the remaining power supply of the ship.

They were now at the mercy of whoever had been firing at them, and from the look of things, they weren’t going to be so merciful.

* * *

Traffic had been sitting alone inside of “her” ship for a while now. She sat in the captain’s chair, counting the money she had gotten from this trip’s haul. Every haul they made, she saved her share. She hoarded her funds greedily. Every now and again she’d remember why she was so fond of currency, but most times her memory was hazy.

It almost _hurt_ to remember.

Even still, she continued doing what she needed to do for herself. Who cared if a few crates of energon went missing? It was good money.

While she was looking at the figures projected from her personal datapad, the main terminal made an electronic chirping sound. It was a sound that annoyed Traffic, mostly because it stopped her from doing whatever it was that she was doing. It meant that the ship was receiving an audio call.

“What does he want _now?”_ She grumbled, stuffing her datapad into the subspace behind her chest window. She got out of her comfy captain’s chair and sat in Snaggletooth’s. She pressed one of the buttons on the pilot’s grid, accepting the transmission.

“Traffic here,” she said with an annoyed tone.

“Ah, good. You’re there,” a soft, yet masculine voice replied.

“I’ll save you some time and tell you we’re about to head back to base. Just needed a quick pit stop.”

“I see,” said the voice. “Well, as much as I appreciate knowing that, that’s not why I’m calling.”

Traffic just chuckled.

_“Did you miss me?”_ she asked flirtatiously.

_“No,”_ said the voice. _“Not in the slightest.”_

“Aww, don’t be like that,” she cooed. “Always playing hard to get...”

The voice on the other line cleared his vocalizer. He had told her over and over that he wasn’t interested, but she obviously had stopped taking hints long ago.

“Traffic,” he said, trying to bring her back to focus, “there’s a _problem.”_

“..What _kind_ of problem?”

* * *

Not long after their exchange at the bar, Arsenal and Snaggletooth were being summoned back to the ship. 

It was time to go.

Arsenal had gotten back first, having left the bar before Snaggletooth. The latter had been shedding a few crocodile tears silently in one of the stalls of the bar’s lavatory when he had gotten Traffic’s message. But he quickly composed himself and rebuilt the walls around his spark and headed back to the ship.

Traffic was sitting in her chair, fingers laced together and resting on the glass panel of her chest. She looked unhappy, which wasn’t surprising or unusual.

Snaggletooth immediately went to his station and started warming up the engines for takeoff. Arsenal, who had been waiting for Snaggletooth by the doorway, began making his way back to his private quarters after he had sat down.

“Where do you think _you’re_ going?” Traffic asked, her question laced with her own brand of personal venom.

“...My room,” he answered back. He wasn’t needed, so he figured he’d just wait in his room until they returned to base.

“Why?” the armored vehicle asked. “Is _Counterfeit_ in there?”

Arsenal stopped dead in his tracks, his spark pounding in its chamber. 

He felt sick. 

_ Anxious. _

Time felt both incredibly slow and fast at the same time. He couldn’t explain how he felt. It just wasn’t good. It was not a good feeling.

Traffic continued.

“So, who _is_ this Counterfeit and why were you asking him for _help?”_

Slowly, he turned around and walked back to the main section of the bridge. He stood where she could see him, but he made sure to be out of arm's reach of her. Primus only knew what she would do if she could put her hands on him right now.

“He’s—”

“He’s an old buddy’a mine,” Snaggletooth interrupted, his back still towards Traffic. He stared at the console in front of him, busying himself with adjusting this setting and that function, just to avoid her red, piercing gaze. “We play cards together every once in a while. Needed some extra creds so I thought I would shoot him a message. No big deal.”

Arsenal was absolutely speechless. 

Was Snaggletooth _helping him?_

The gunformer looked back at Traffic, who had a raised optical ridge at the gatormech.

“So it was _you_ that sent out the message?”

“Yep. It was me. Ready for takeoff on your mark, Captain,” Snaggletooth said, attempting to divert the conversation.

It didn’t work.

“What’s his altmode?”

“Hm?”

“You old friend Counterfeit. Surely you know what his altmode is.”

“Oh, yeah. A’course I do. It’s, ah...he’s a sports car.”

Traffic hummed an affirmative tone, then turned to Arsenal. They locked optics, and there was a disgusting grin on her face.

“You hear that, Arsenal? _Counterfeit the Monoformer’s_ alt mode is a _sports car.”_

Arsenal’s optics began to well up with lubricant. 

_ How did she know all of this? _

Traffic began to laugh. It sounded as nasty as that grin looked. Arsenal flinched as he saw her flex her metal fingers over the ends of the chair’s armrests. 

“So,” she began, _“Not only_ do I have a traitor working for me, I’ve got a _liar_ as well.”

The two other mechs remained silent. It was best not to say much when she was in one of her moods.

“Snaggletooth,” she said, breaking the silence. “Do you remember _my old gun?”_

“...I do.”

“Why don’t you tell Arsenal about him.”

_ Snaggletooth did not want to. _

“Go ahead. _Tell him.”_

Snaggletooth cleared his vocalizer. He decided to keep it brief.

“His name was Artillery. He’s dead now.”

Arsenal didn’t like this. He didn’t like where this was going.

“He questioned my authority is what happened,” Traffic clarified.

Arsenal _really_ didn’t like where this was going.

“...But I forgive you, Arsenal. I’ll let this little mistake of yours go.”

This wasn’t good. 

This wasn’t good _at all._

Traffic chuckled.

_ “But I don't think Counterfeit will be able to.” _

“W—What do you mean…?” Arsenal asked, boldly. 

Counterfeit was the most forgiving person he had ever met. Traffic didn’t know what she was talking about...

Again, she turned her helm to him. 

_ “You’ve killed him.” _

The gunformer gave her a blank stare, his optics still teary from the whole conversation.

“Turns out,” she began again, “that little _‘help me’_ message got to wherever you had intended, and a cargo class ship has been tracking our location. But don’t worry. The Clean Up Crew should be taking care of him or whoever else might be with him as we speak.”

* * *

It was like the calm before the storm. The four mechs aboard the Cosmic Sunrise were suspended in dread, and lack of artificial gravity, awaiting their fates of whoever was attacking them.

“Shortfuse,” Surge whispered, _“what do we do?”_ His voice was shaky. 

He needed guidance.

The minibot doctor patted Surge on the shoulder kibble as comforting as he possibly could.

“There’s nothing we can do, son.”

Surge’s mouth hung open, trying to let out some kind of reply, some rebuttal against Shortfuse’s defeated tone, but nothing came to him. So he said nothing. None of them said anything after that. They kept to themselves, occupying the remaining time of their existences with thoughts of those who they would likely never see again. Regrets of the past. Dreams and aspirations of the future that would never come to fruition.

All of those things were irrelevant now.

Crowbar reached into his subspace one last time and took out the Autobot badge he had made for himself. He affixed it onto his abdomen where he always put it. If he was about to go, he was about to do so with pride.

Suddenly, the crew of the Cosmic Sunrise fell back into their seats, as gravity was somehow being forced back upon them.

Crowbar hit his head again and groaned.

Counterfeit, trying to sit properly in the pilot’s chair, looked out the front window. They were still out in space. But then, a blinding light enveloped them and pierced through the clear glass panel. The mechs shielded their optics, wincing at the suddenness of it.

After a moment, adjusting to the light, they looked and saw they were now inside of a much larger ship. It looked like a standard Cybertronian, military grade shuttle used for transport. There were no insignias anywhere that they could see, so whether or not they had been captured by Autobots or Decpticons was indeterminate. Despite the large interior of the attacking vessel, there weren’t any crew members that they could see.

“Should...should we get out?” Crowbar asked.

_“Could be a trap,”_ Shortfuse stated.

“Do you think it’s sentient?” Surge asked next. “The ship, I mean.”

“Oh, wow. That makes me uncomfortable just thinking about it,” Counterfeit said. “I don’t like being inside of people...it makes me feel weird...”

Someone had apparently decided for them as to what would happen next. Their auditory receptors were filled with the sound of moving machinery.

_“That can’t be good,”_ Surge said pessimistically.

And he was right.

It wasn’t.

Counterfeit and Crowbar looked through their side windows to get a better glance at what was going on. There were large, mechanical cranes that had been transformed from panels on the floor of this level of the ship. They moved and gripped the sides of the Cosmic Sunrise, crushing the exterior slightly, but enough to cause visible internal damage. Mr. Wheeler’s spaceship was then picked up and raised above the flooring.

Panicked, Crowbar tried to manually open his door.

“It’s locked…!” he exclaimed. 

Shortfuse sighed.

“Of course it's locked! We’ve got no power and the last operation the ship was in was emergency mode. It’s auto-locked.” He tsked at him. “Didn’t that Autobot school teach you anything? ”

“Uh, I think we’ve got a bigger issue than what Crowbar does and doesn’t know,” Surge said, pointing towards the main window at the front of the ship. All optics went to where the power cell was pointing. A giant, metal appendage with an appropriately proportionate buzzsaw attached to the end of it had transformed in front of the Cosmic Sunrise. The quad of Cybertronians watched as a laser light mounted into the equipment turned on illuminated into the interior. It appeared to be making calculated measurements.

“Alright. Everyone remain calm and don’t make any sudden movements,” Shortfuse ordered, only moments before the sawblade whirred to life. 

Counterfeit whined. 

_ Mr. Wheeler was not going to be happy about this. _

As the spinning blade hit the top of the vessel, sparks flew in all directions. The Cosmic Sunrise creaked and groaned as it was being sawed in half. Counterfeit, Crowbar, Shortfuse, and Surge all pressed themselves against the side walls of the cruiser. It was easier for the minibots, but as for the other two, things got uncomfortable _pretty quickly._

But nothing was as uncomfortable as when the small ship had been successfully sawed in half, and the metal clamps holding the ship up pulled the two halves apart and dumped the rescue team onto the floor.

As they began to get themselves up and assess their personal damages, a short figure behind a control podium emerged.

“Well, well, well,” the unknown mech said, his vocalizer outputting a cocky and arrogant tone, “what do we have—oh, _frag me...”_

_“Oh, my god...”_ Surge sighed. 

Part of him had wished _he_ had been sawed in half.

_“Sprocket...”_ Crowbar snarled. 

If he still had his fangs, he would have been baring them.

“Wait a second, you _know him?!”_ Surge exclaimed, looking up at Crowbar.

“I used to work with him,” Crowbar said. “A long time ago, back when—”

“Back when you were actually a respectable person, not some _Autobot,_ apparently,” Sprocket interrupted. The indigo power cell then turned his attention to Surge. “Hey, Surgie. Still lookin’ good after all these years, I see,” he said jokingly.

_“Go short circuit yourself,”_ Surge hissed.

“Don’t tell me you _also_ know this piece of traitorous scrap metal,” Crowbar said to Surge.

“Unfortunately,” Surge confirmed. “...He’s my _ex.”_

“Oh, well, this is kinda awkward,” Counterfeit said.

“Alright, family reunion time is over,” Sprocket announced, taking control over the conversation. “Now look, we can do this the easy way or the hard way.”

Shortfuse began to laugh.

“You’re a bit out numbered and too unarmed to be making such statements,” the nuke said.

“It’s not just him,” Crowbar stated. “There are two others. Unless,” Crowbar continued, “I’ve been _replaced.”_

_“Oh, no,”_ Sprocket said back. “No one could _ever_ replace _you,_ Crowbar. And dare I say, we all kind of miss you.”

“Is that _so?”_ Crowbar questioned, folding his arms over his chest. “Because you all didn’t seem to miss me after you had sold me out to the authorities to save yourselves...!” 

_ Crowbar was still very bitter about that. _

“Look, we had to do what we had to do,” Sprocket said, trying to justify the actions of the past.

“We were a _team...!”_ Crowbar said with a loud tone of voice.

Sprocket was about to reply when the sound an intercom system clicked on.

_“Hello, Crowbar,”_ said a sultry, feminine voice. _“Lovely paint job. Although, I did think you looked better in black.”_

Crowbar said nothing as she spoke.

_“Sprocket,”_ the voice continued, _“stop stalling. Finish the job and let’s go.”_

The power cell sighed and swiftly took out a standard mini-grade blaster from his inner subspace.

“Well, you heard the lady,” Sprocket said, almost sadly. "It was nice knowin' ya..."

Crowbar wished he could say the same. And deep down, beneath his unresolved anger towards his old cohorts, there was a small part of him that actually did. But that part was being shouted over by his Autobot programming kicking in, screaming _“Protect the civilians!”_ Without hesitation, he pulled his own weapon from his subspace. Something he hadn’t pulled out in a very, _very_ long time. 

_ It was his plasma knife. _

Sprocket laughed.

“Oh, Crowbar. We don’t play with knives anymore.”

And with that, he shot him, straight through the Autobot insignia. The force of being blasted at such a point blank range sent him backwards. His back strut slammed against the base of one of the cranes that was still holding up one half of the Cosmic Sunrise. He slid down onto the floor, a trail of his own energon coating the industrial orange of the equipment. His optics flickered for a moment above his agape mouth, now dribbling out his life fluid.

_ Crowbar’s optics went offline. _

* * *

_ He sighed. _

Talking to Traffic was so infuriating, but he had gotten through to her and that was good enough for him. The only thing that worried him now was the Clean Up Crew. They seemed _dependable,_ but if he was to give his personal opinion about them he didn’t like them all that much.

Mostly Sprocket, who was too trigger happy for his own good.

Luckily, he trusted the other two just enough that they would keep him in line.

They were to report back to him after they had taken care of whoever was following Traffic and her crewmates, so he was now playing the lonely waiting game that he was so accustomed to. 

He had seen them a few times and only had his initial impressions of them to go by. Snaggletooth looked angry and ferocious, like he was ready to rough someone up at any given time. Arsenal, on the other hand, was always quiet, and looked...downtrodden.

He figured it might have something to do with Traffic. She was just _so very unpleasant._ Out of all the associates he dealt with on a regular basis, she was his _least_ favorite. And with good reason. She was loud, full of herself, disgustingly flirty with him despite telling her off over and over again… 

Radar let out another sigh.

_ This was not what he had signed up for when he joined the Decepticons. _


	14. While They Were Away

Airstrike was concerned. 

She worried over Crowbar. There was no doubt that Crowbar was handling himself just fine, as he had already proved himself before he had left. But the seeker couldn’t shake the uneasy feeling that nestled deep in her spark.

She logged out of her computer and folded her reading spectacles, gently placing them inside of her subspace. As she left her personal office and entered the main employee office area, she looked over at Crowbar’s station to her left. She stood there for a moment, looking at the mech sitting in his chair.

_ It was Scooter. _

Now, Scooter was...a lot of things. He was energetic, occasionally cocky, sometimes a little too lax for his own good.

Definitely Crowbar’s opposite in the workplace.

The small two-wheeler quickly set his pedes down onto the floor as soon as he noticed her standing there.

“Oh, hey boss!” he said in his usually cheery voice. “What’s shakin’?”

“I’m stepping out for a bit,” she answered back, less enthusiastically. “If I’m needed, comm me.”

“You got it,” he winked.

With that, she left the office and made her way to the building’s elevator where she ascended to the rooftop of the building to transform and go for a short joy flight. 

She needed to clear her processor for a little while...

* * *

Cassette twisted the cubed glass in her servo, making sure to give every side a good rubdown with the dishrag she held in the other.

_ She sighed. _

Business had slowed enough for her to notice since Counterfeit had left. He certainly was an attraction to the bar. People had been asking about him, wondering where he was and if he was ok. She would give them the same reply. _“He’s on a little vacation. He works hard, ya know? Sunshine deserves to go out every once in a while.”_ And that was sufficient enough to get the questions to stop. She didn’t want to think too much about him being away.

_ It reminded her that Shortfuse was also away. _

She had tried comm’ing him a few times, during those late, lonely hours of the evening, only to get silence in return. She told herself that he was just simply too far away for her signals to reach, but that only pushed back the worrying thoughts instead of soothing them.

She was beginning to get lost in her thoughts when a figure sat down in front of her on the other side of the bar.

It was Airstrike.

“Bit early for a drink, isn’t it?” the ex-racer asked. The seeker gave a short chuckle and a half smile.

_“Not early enough,”_ the jet joked. “Got anything weak? I’m on my lunch break and have a security department to go back to.”

Cassette laughed.

“One weak Energon Spritzer comin’ up.” 

Airstrike watched as Cassette made her drink, mixing in a little bit of this and that.

“Things have been a little quiet around here with our boys gone.”

“Have they?” Airstrike asked.

“Oh, yeah,” Cassette said, handing Airstrike her drink. “Folks don’t want to come drink at a joint where there isn’t a handsome monoformer to serve you or put his hands on you when you get too rowdy.”

“...I see,” Airstrike replied, not really sure what to say to that.

“What about you?” Cassette asked. “How have things been up at the security department without that little motorcycle rolling around?”

“It’s been,” Airstrike began, “different. He kept things...interesting, you could say.”

“Ha! I can imagine,” Cassette said. “I’ve heard a lot of things about him from some of my customers.”

“That, I don’t doubt,” Airstrike opined.

There was a moment of silence as one drank and the other began to dry off the next freshly washed glass. 

“Have you heard anything from them?” Cassette asked, making the silence short lived.

“No,” Airstrike answered back flatly, “but I have Synchron on standby. He was told to alert me if he heard anything.”

“That’s good,” the smaller mech said. “If it’s not too much of a hassle, I’d like to be notified if anything comes up. I miss my Shorty, y’know.”

“Of course,” the security chief affirmed, taking a gulp of her drink and setting the empty glass back down on the counter.

_“Fancy another?”_ the bartender asked.

“I should probably get back to work...”

Cassette hummed back at her, focusing still on cleaning glasses.

“Well,” she began, watching Airstrike take some payment out of her subspace and placing it next to the empty glass, “I’ll be here if you need something a little stronger.”

“I’ll keep that in mind,” the seeker said, rising from her seat to leave. 

* * *

Synchron sat in his chair in front of the large computer monitor. He had a small cup of energon combined with his favorite additives resting on a smooth part of the terminal’s surface, where he stirred the flavored particles around with a stir stick he found in the break room of the Communications and Technology building.

He had finished going through and replying to his daily emails and figured a break was in order. He turned his hand palm up onto the console, taking care not to accidentally press a button or flip a switch. He watched through his optical screen as the panels on his wrist transformed away and revealed the fuel intake port. He let out a staticky sigh as he took his cup of fuel and slowly poured it into the cavity.

_ He missed having a mouth. _

The wrist port’s flavor receptors were poor. He could barely taste anything that he consumed. He could always add high concentrations of additives to his food, which he did on occasion, but that tended to get expensive so he wasn’t able to do it often.

Synchron got distracted as he watched the pink pearlescent liquid flow into him. It reminded him of the internal energon that was spilled on the streets in front of the Senatorial Building back on Cybertron on that first day of revolution.

He was there as a protester, gathered together with thousands upon _thousands_ of others who had something to say to the senate about labeling groups as ‘disposable.’ As it turned out, and he _personally_ found out, the senate also believed that those who opposed them were _also_ disposable.

Synchron, like many others, found himself captured by senatorial guards and taken away to be altered.

To become _Empurata._

Apparently, he had gotten lost in these thoughts for far too long, as the energon he was giving himself began to overflow. He thought of a quick curse as he pulled his arm away from the terminal, not wanting to get any liquid on the equipment. He then watched as the pink fluid dripped through the seams of his forearm and onto the floor. It made him wonder...if he would’ve been better off being one of the ones that were slaughtered by agents of the senate.

He got up from his seat to go grab a cloth from the breakroom. He didn’t want to dwell on thoughts like that.

_ It depressed him. _

Being alive in a body that wasn't his, a living example of what happens when you oppose the senate and their laws or ideologies, was depressing enough for him.

After getting the cloth and cleaning up the mess he made, he sat back down and finished his drink. Once again, he found himself staring at the monitor. His instructions from Airstrike was to inform her of anything that came in regarding Crowbar and the others. A simple yet boring task, but he digressed. Days had gone by and there hadn’t been any sign or signal from the Cosmic Sunrise.

He hadn’t heard anything from Radar either, which wasn’t out of the ordinary. Ever since he had left to help manage the satellite’s energon outpost, his contact with the space station was rare and few. Radar only called to give irregular status reports or special updates. 

Nothing more, nothing less. 

He was busy, surely, and Synchron could respect that. But he’d be a liar if he said he didn’t miss Radar, that handsome piece of hardware.

Synchron wondered, if Crowbar wasn’t in the picture, would Radar be interested in him? Would Radar find him to be a desirable romantic partner? 

...Would _anyone?_

* * *

Not many people came to visit Mr. Wheeler at his warehouse. Then again, most people didn’t really have a _need to._ Dare it be said that nobody wanted to visit the strange, old, half transformed segway and see his odd trinkets and baubles, old relics, or antiques. There was occasionally a customer or two, either just browsing or looking for something specific. If he didn’t have it, he knew someone who did. Or, he knew someone who knew someone who did, and so on and so forth.

Mr. Wheeler was big on connections. To him, the people you know, your relationships to them, and the connections you had were the most valuable things you could ever have in life.

Today, like any other, was a quiet day at the Warehouse. But that was alright. It gave him more time to clean up a few things, organize his wares in the front and back of the warehouse, and remind himself of what he did and didn’t have. Mr. Wheeler wasn’t as young as he used to be, and on occasion his age did get the best of his processor and he’d forget something here or there. But for the most part, Mr. Wheeler was on top of things.

He had become a little more active than he normally was since his latest encounter with Counterfeit and the others. He didn’t get much social interaction since he had arrived on the space station. Again, people just thought he was weird. But seeing Counterfeit again had brought up a lot of old memories. A lot of _old feelings._

_ A lot of regrets. _

Perhaps when Counterfeit returned, he could talk to him about their estranged relationship. Enough time had passed, he thought, that he would be able to do that.


	15. Unpleasant Feelings

Shock and panic filled the sparks of the other three as they watched Crowbar’s frame spilling energon over and under himself. If he wasn’t treated soon, his spark could fizzle out from stabilizer failure.

“OH, MY GOD...!! YOU _SHOT_ HIM..!!” Surge shouted, turning to see the motorcycle’s limp body.

“Well, _duh,”_ Sprocket replied, aiming at the other power cell next.

Upon seeing this, Shortfuse transformed.

_ “SHOOT HIM AND I’LL BLOW THIS ENTIRE SHIP TO SMITHEREENS!!” _

Sprocket looked at the nuclear warhead and laughed, pointing his gun at him instead.

“You’re _bluffing,”_ Sprocket said back.

But then, the bio-lighting on the medic’s altmode began to glow rhythmically, and the sound of a detonation sequence grew more and more audible.

_ “TRY ME.” _

Frustrated and annoyed at the changing situation, the trigger happy mech pointed the end of his blaster at Counterfeit.

“What about you, big guy? You wanna be a hero for your friends, _too?”_

Counterfeit watched as the minibot’s finger curled over the trigger. He didn’t like this. This was a bad situation. Crowbar was behind him bleeding out at a horrible rate, Shortfuse was prepared to take out the entire ship as a threat, and _now,_ there was a smoking blaster barrel pointed at him.

He didn’t have any words to say back to the power cell. He didn’t know what he was supposed to say. He only stood there, looking down at his tiny attacker.

And then he remembered _Arsenal._

Tears started to well up in his optics before they inevitably fell from his sad, metal face.

He was going to die before finding him. 

And Shortfuse, and Surge, and Crowbar, too.

They were all going to die, one way or another, and all he could do was cry.

_“Aw, don’t cry,”_ Sprocket mocked. _“It’ll be over before ya know it,”_ he added, aiming right for the monoformer’s head. He looked through the built in scope and focused on his target.

“Now, say 'cheese...'” he taunted.

_“CHEESE...!”_ Surge shouted, tackling his former courtmate to the ground while he was distracted. Sprocket flew backwards, taking his gun and Surge with him. The latter wrestled the weapon out of his hand and slid it away from them. Shortfuse took advantage of the moment and transformed back into his root mode and went for it.

“GET _OFF_ OF ME!!” Sprocket hollered. Surge gave a disgruntled laugh back as he struggled to keep the other cell in submission.

_“That's funny._ I don’t think I’ve ever heard you say that to me before,” he spat.

Sprocket was about to sneer a remark, but he caught a glimpse of the end of his blaster through his visor. Shortfuse was standing over him with his finger now over the trigger.

_ “WHERE’S THE GODDAMN MEDBAY ON THIS SHIP?!” _

Feeling like he was being backed into a corner, Sprocket did the only thing he could think of. 

He threw his head back and turned up his vocalizer to maximum volume.

_ “TES!!! DO SOMETHING!!!” _

Immediately, the intercom came back on, and the voice from earlier began to speak again.

_ “The medbay is the second door on the right.” _

_“COUNTERFEIT,”_ Shortfuse bellowed, _“TAKE CROWBAR TO THE MEDBAY...!”_

It was enough to break him out of his anxious train of thought, so Counterfeit went over to Crowbar and quickly picked him up and carried him to the medbay.

_“GO WITH HIM, SURGE,”_ he continued, his grip still firm around the weapon.

Surge complied and got off of Sprocket and rushed after Counterfeit to prep Crowbar for what he only imagined to be a very _gory_ surgery.

With Surge finally off of him, Sprocket decided to make a run for it…

...But he only managed to flip himself over before Shortfuse pressed his pede into his backplate, causing the other to let out a pathetic squeal.

“AND WHERE ON PRIMUS’ PRECIOUS CYBERTRON DO YOU THINK _YOU’RE_ GOIN’?!”

_“TES!!!_ He’s gonna _SHOOT ME!!!”_ he yelled again.

At this point, Shortfuse was too embarrassed to.

Taking his pede off of his back, he gave him a quick kick in the aft instead.

_“Get outta here,”_ the doctor sneered. He didn’t have time to waste on Sprocket any longer.

There was another life he had to save.

* * *

Not long after his “conversation” with Traffic, he strode into his personal quarters and locked himself in. He fell to the floor, knee plates hitting hard against the metal panels below him.

Arsenal _sobbed._

He rubbed his optics haphazardly with his servos, choking out cries of anguish. He cursed at himself in his mind. This was all his fault. His selfish act had caused Counterfeit to lose his life.

Counterfeit, the _only_ person that he cared deeply for.

From the moment of his construction, Arsenal had only been told what to do and when to do it. The Decepticons ingrained into him and the other MTOs that they were fighting for freedom, but he had no concept of what freedom was. As far as he knew, he was a prisoner.  He was a prisoner of a war that he had no choice but to be a part of, aboard a ship with Traffic as his personal warden.  The only freedom he had ever experienced was when he decided to mutilate his own self and escape onto the Satellite Space Station. It was the first time he had ever felt sentient as a person. He had made a decision and he acted on it on his own volition.

He felt _free._

But now, that sense of brief freedom had been crushed under the pede of Traffic. 

His freedom, and now _his spark._

As he continued to grieve, alone in his small, dark room, he began to think about his actions. Had he never escaped, he never would have met Counterfeit, he never would have sent that message, he never would have endangered his life.

Arsenal gripped at his left arm, the arm that turned into the barrel of his alternate mode. His tear stained face scrunched up and twisted in anger towards himself.

_ This was all his fault. _

Counterfeit’s death was _his fault._

He began to cry harder at this, his internal ventilation system struggling to keep up with his staggered ventilations. 

He would never see Counterfeit again.

* * *

There was a light. 

A _bright light._

It was all that Crowbar could see. 

But then, his optics began to focus, and a face began to come into view.

It was _Shortfuse’s._

Crowbar was confused. Why was _Shortfuse_ here? 

Where _was_ ‘here?’ 

What was going on? He didn’t know. All he knew in that moment was that he didn’t feel very well.

He felt _cold._

Crowbar tried to sit up, but the medic’s hand pushed gently against his shoulder kibble, keeping him down.

_ Had Shortfuse always been so strong? _

_“Easy,_ son,” the warhead spoke, “you don’t need to be movin’ around so much right now.”

Crowbar opened his mouth to speak back, but the sharp, pulsing waves of pain from his abdominal region only allowed him to groan. He raised his head just enough so he could see what was going on.

_ He regretted doing so immediately. _

As he looked, he saw a lot of energon, energon that he could only assume to be his own, and Surge’s hands deep in his internals, working fast alongside Shortfuse’s.

Crowbar’s optics rolled in their sockets.

Then, he fainted.

* * *

Living a double life is a hard thing to do, and Radar knew that very well.

Day in and day out, he worked tirelessly to manage operations at this asteroid mining plant. He oversaw the functions of the mining processes and collected the data with the help of those who worked under him. It was his job to do this, and to organize reports and cargo vehicles with refined energon to send back to the Satellite Space Station.

_ And that was the easy part. _

The challenge came in when it was time to report back to his boss, who was part of the Decepticon chain of command. There were times when tough decisions had to be made and he had to make a call whether to send more energon to the space station, or send more for the Cause.

There were some who worked at the mining plant who were also undercover ‘Cons, and they chastised him over the decisions he made. And when confronted by them, he would chastise them back, saying, _“What good is being a Decepticon if we draw suspicion to ourselves? We cannot let those Neutrals catch wind of our plans here. Now, get back to work so that they can continue to live in a blissful ignorance.”_

Radar had to make everyone on Satellite believe that there was a steady supply of energon coming in from the mining base. The energon being manufactured there was critical. There were a large number of Decepticons fighting against the Autobots, and it was his role, as well as others in similar positions, to aid in supplying fuel. Every drop mattered, and with the War on the verge of being swayed in their favor, the Decepticons could continue their fight until the very end.

And it was Radar’s job to aid them in that. 

The satellite dish reclined in his chair, taking a moment to reflect on his role in the Decepticons. He would be glad when this was all over and he could go home. He wanted to go back to the space station and continue his life with his beloved. Even now, he missed him terribly and wanted to see him, despite Crowbar of Iacon being the most annoying, obnoxious “Autobot” he had the displeasure of knowing.

He took out his purple faction badge from his subspace and caressed it in his spindly fingers. It was beautiful and in perfect condition, hidden away deep inside of himself as to keep up the appearance of being neutral. Radar set it down on the terminal’s desktop to retrieve yet another item from his subspace. It was his personal datapad, and he had several pictures of him and Crowbar saved in it’s software. He opened up the image files and stared at them longingly. 

_ Oh, how he missed his Crowbar. _

* * *

Crowbar of Iacon woke up from his fainting spell and still found himself lying on the medal slab of the ship’s medbay. He recalled what he saw moments before he passed out, and was almost afraid to see what the damage was. The motorcycle decided that instead of looking, he would feel it instead.

Weakly, he moved his servo over his abdomen. He could feel some kind of metal covering over what was a brutal wound. Crowbar could feel the dents and seams of the metal piece that had been welded onto him. It definitely wasn’t like metal mesh that could be easily accepted by his nanites during self restoration. 

_ It was different. _

As he moved his arm further, he could feel the pull of some kind of cord. He raised his head just enough to take a look, and saw that an iv cord had been fixed into his wrist, drawing in energon straight into his system. His optics followed the medical tubing and found Counterfeit at the end of it, sitting in a chair next to him.

A piece of his shoulder plating had been removed, exposing part of his frame.

Crowbar looked at the piece that had been used as a substitute protective covering and noticed that it bared _Counterfeit's paint color._

“Oh, you’re awake...!” Counterfeit exclaimed softly.

For a moment Crowbar didn’t say anything. His mouth hung open lazily, thinking that maybe some sort of reply would come out, but nothing did.

“Um, Shortfuse wanted me to tell you that you’re not allowed to get up,” the monoformer continued, fiddling with something in his hands.

Looking around, Crowbar could see that they were the only two in the small medbay.

“Where is he? And...and Surge?” he managed to ask.

_“Well,”_ Counterfeit began, “He and Surge went to, uh, go negotiate with the ship’s captain about us leaving in peace.”

To that, Crowbar just let out an unimpressed laugh.

_“Good luck with that,”_ he said. “The captain of this ship isn’t so easily swayed.”

“What’s she like?” Counterfeit asked curiously.

_“She’s,”_ Crowbar started, remembering intimate details, “very particular about aesthetics. She used to be a cosmetician before the Decepticon uprising started on Cybertron. She’s...too pretty for her own good and she’ll use that to her advantage if she has to. She’s cunning and very dangerous.”

“Wow,” Counterfeit chuckled, “it sounds like you know her really well.”

“...A little _too_ well.”

There was a brief silence before Counterfeit spoke up again.

“Oh! Uh, here,” he said, handing Crowbar what he had been fiddling with. “I did the best I could but, uh, some of the pieces couldn’t be salvaged...”

Crowbar looked at what used to be his Autobot insignia. It looked awful and poorly welded, with obvious pieces missing and most of the paint gone.

He looked up at Counterfeit looking absolutely dumbstruck.

“You...did this for _me?”_

“Well, _yeah,”_ Counterfeit replied. “It’s one of your favorite things, isn’t it? I mean, you get really, really mad when I take it...”

It took him a moment before he had the right words to say.

_ “...Thank you.” _

* * *

After Arsenal had finished his breakdown, he had decided to curl up in his berth and wish to be dead. He lied there, depressed and unwilling to move, trying not to think. 

Thinking made him remember things that would upset him and possibly send him down another spiral of an emotional roller coaster.

_ Knock knock. _

Startled, he sat up. His mental circuitry firing rapidly, preparing himself for Traffic to barge in through the door to do Primus only knew what.

But then it dawned on him...that Traffic wouldn’t knock so politely beforehand.

Arsenal sat himself up and slid off of his berth, making his way to the door. He was extremely hesitant, and no one could blame him for that. He initiated the door’s opening sequence and it slid open. 

_ And there was Snaggletooth. _

* * *

Surge stood outside of the Captain’s quarters waiting for Shortfuse to come out. From the sound of Shortfuse’ muffled yelling, it seemed that negotiations weren’t going too well. But Surge had his own issue to worry about.

And his name was _Sprocket._

_“So,”_ the indigo power cell began, leaning so nonchalantly against the side of the captain’s quarters’ door, _“wanna frag?”_

Disgusted, Surge answered sharply.

“I’m _married.”_

“Oh, is that _right?”_

Surge didn’t answer.

“And who’s the lucky mech?” Sprocket continued. “Or _mechs.”_

“None of your business,” Surge finally answered back.

Sprocket chuckled.

“Aw, don’t be like that, Surgie. I’m just tryin’ to have a little casual conversation.”

“Well, Sprocket, it’s kinda hard to have a casual conversation with someone who, not too long ago, _held you at gunpoint.”_

“Look, I was only doing what I was told,” Sprocket replied, justifying himself. “Orders are orders. We’re at war, y’know.”

Frustrated, Surge let out a huff of a sigh and shook his head.

Then, charging out of the captain’s quarters, startling both power cells, was Shortfuse.

“FOUR-ARMED, SMOKE PUFFING _DIVA…!!”_ the doctor shouted as the door closed behind him. The minibot looked at Sprocket, whom he had no interest in, then at Surge.

“I told you it wouldn’t do any good,” Sprocket laughed.

Shortfuse turned back to the Decepticon, his red optics glowing furiously at him.

“YOU SHUT YOUR MOUTH OR SO HELP ME _PRIMUS_ I’LL SHOVE YOUR BLASTER SO FAR UP YOUR AFT IT’LL BE A MIRACLE OF MEDICAL SCIENCE TO TAKE IT BACK OUT AGAIN…!”

Surge placed his hand of Shortfuse’s shoulder, reeling him back in.

“What did she say?”

Shortfuse, with a furrowed, metal brow, looked at Surge with annoyance.

“She wants to talk to _Crowbar!!”_

* * *

Arsenal was more uneasy than uncomfortable. This...didn’t happen. Snaggletooth had _never_ asked him to just hang out aboard the ship. He was starting to feel awkward just sitting there on one of the stools by Snaggletooth’s mini bar setup.

The beastformer was opening a locked cabinet, and pulled out a fancy, ornate glass containing a fluorescent colored liquid. He sat it next to two glasses on the countertop and began to pour them both some.

“Trust me, this will taste _a lot_ bettah than that slag they were servin’ at that service station,” Snaggletooth said.

He slid one glass of the yellow stuff to Arsenal, who took it quizzically. It looked and smelled pretty concentrated. Lifting it up to his lips, the grey mech took a decent swallow. 

It tasted good.

_ Really good. _

“What is this?” Arsenal asked, exchanging his next sip for a gulp.

“That is _high grade._ From my private stash,” the crocodile answered back. “Don’t tell Traffic.”

“I won’t.”

Arsenal had never tasted a grade of engex quite like this before. It tasted so smooth and went down easy. It didn’t burn like some of the drinks he had in the past. It made his insides feel warm and fuzzy, something he hadn’t felt in a long time.

Snaggletooth sat down on the other stool and took his own glass in hand, sipping leisurely from it.

“I don’t take this out very often.”

“...What’s the occasion?” Arsenal asked softly, taking another generous swig.

“I wanted to talk to you about Traffic...”

Arsenal’s spark sank. He did _not_ want to talk about her, not while his system was starting to feel nice and cozy from the engex.

_ “...About killin’ her.” _

* * *

Shortfuse barged into the medbay with Surge right behind him, startling both Crowbar and Counterfeit.

“Good, you’re up,” the medic said angrily, still thinking about his conversation with the captain. “She wants to talk to you.”

“Well, Shortfuse, as much as I’d love to, I don’t think I’m in any condition to leave the medbay,” Crowbar said.

“He tried to tell her that,” Surge began to say, “but she wouldn’t listen, apparently.”

Shortfuse only grumbled, walking over to the monitor by the medberth Crowbar was lying on to check his vitals and stats.

“She’s a real _glitch,”_ the green mech spat.

“I know,” Crowbar agreed.

Shortfused turned to look at him with his usual angry look.

“Well, maybe you can talk some sense into that brain module of hers,” he huffed out.

“Sounds like I don’t have much of a choice,” Crowbar said, watching Surge take out the iv that had connected him to Counterfeit.

“Here,” Counterfeit said, smiling at Crowbar. He extended his hand to him, offering to help him up. Crowbar gave a small smile back as he placed his hand in the larger mech’s.

“Now,” Shortfuse continued, “if you start to leak energon you are to come RIGHT BACK, _you hear me?!”_

“I promise,” Crowbar sighed, regaining his balance as he finally stood, gripping Counterfeit’s hand when he felt like he needed the extra support.

“I’ll show you the way,” Surge said, already headed to the door. “It’s not far.”

Crowbar nodded and followed, albeit slower than his regular pace. But in all honesty, he wasn’t in any rush to see her again.

_ Surge wasn’t the only one aboard a ship with their ex. _


	16. Emotions

Surge led Crowbar to the captain’s quarters, and was happy to see that Sprocket wasn’t there.

“Here it is,” Surge said. “Good luck in there.”

“Thanks,” Crowbar said back as he walked into the dark room.

_ He wasn’t sure if he’d need it. _

* * *

Arsenal couldn’t _believe_ what he was hearing.

_Kill_ Traffic? Was that even _possible?_

He had never seriously considered it, only fantasized about her being injured severely from time to time. So, Arsenal raised his glass to his intake and took a smaller, more cautious sip.

_“Did you know,”_ Snaggletooth continued, taking out a tin of cygarettes from his subspace, “...that this ship used to be _mine?”_

It was worded as a question, but it sounded more to Arsenal like a saddened confession.

“...No, I didn’t.”

“Oh, yeah,” the beastformer confirmed. _“Good Times._ That’s what we called ‘er. Me and some old mates. Long before Decepticon this and Autobot that.”

Arsenal watched as Snaggletooth took a cygarette from the tin and placed it between his lips. The end of it glowed a dull orange as the larger mech inhaled, and smoke began to pour out from behind sharp, pointed teeth.

“We sure had a lot of ‘em...good times...”

“She...took your ship?” Arsenal asked, trying to keep this conversation on track and not watch it unfold into a tale of reminiscence. 

With that, Snaggletooth took a long, hard drag of his cygarette.

“Yep,” he replied, blowing out a stream of smoke behind his words. “She sure did, _the glitch._ Took a lot from me, she did. My ship and my gun...my amica endura...”

His vocalizer began to falter at that last part, and it made Arsenal’s spark frown.

_“Artillery._ It was him. He was my amica.”

Setting the cygarette down on a dish atop the makeshift bar, he picked up his glass and took a hearty gulp of energizing fluid.

“What was he like?” the gunformer asked, taking another sip of his own.

_So much for not wanting to reminisce._ But he couldn’t help it. Hearing about a fellow gunformer piqued his interest. 

Snaggletooth chuckled.

“Artie had no filter. None whatsoever. It was one ‘a the things I loved about him. Pissed Traffic off, that’s for damn sure, _HA!”_

“He sounds pleasant,” Arsenal smiled.

“He was. And that was what got ‘im killed,” he snarled sadly.

Arsenal’s smile quickly faded.

“He was tired, same as you, about what she used him for. Gave her lip about it...one time too many. _Threatened her._ She didn’t like that.”

_ “He...threatened her?” _

“Big time. Threatened to expose her backdoor dealings to Decepticon high command. Well, in this case...our commander.”

_ “Oh.” _

“Yep. Took him and tore ‘im to bits. Right in front of me. Told me I’d be next if...” Snaggletooth paused, his emotions rising and getting caught in his vocalizer.

_ He reset it quickly. _

“...if I got any ideas.”

“So,” Arsenal began, changing the subject for his sake, “you want to kill her.”

_ “Precisely.” _

The two mechs were silent for a moment, drinking their drinks, processing what they were discussing.

“...What’s your plan?”

Perhaps it was the engex, or maybe the thought of Traffic taking a gunformer like himself apart with her bare servos, but Arsenal was liking this idea more and more.

“Simple. Push that waste 'a metal into the smelting chamber, take my ship back, and get as far away from Cybertronian civilization as we possibly can.”

_ “...We?” _

_ “Unless you want to stay with the Decepticons.” _

It didn’t take long for Arsenal to give a reply to that.

“No, I don’t.”

Snaggletooth smiled.

“Great! So it’s decided then! ...There’s only one problem.”

“What’s that?” Arsenal asked, taking another sip of his high grade.

“Gotta figure out a way to get you out of her hands before I dunk ‘er undah.”

“It’s fine,” the grey mech blurted out. “Do what you have to.”

He sat there, swirling his drink in his hand before tilting his helm back to take in the rest of it. The bottom of the glass hit the countertop loudly, then screeched as he pushed it forward. Snaggletooth took his container of engex and began pouring Arsenal another glass.

_ “...There’s nothing left in this world for me anyway...” _

Snaggletooth listened as he topped off his own glass.

“Is it because of _him?”_

Arsenal looked up at him, his frame’s internal temperature rising from the high grade.

“What?”

“Is that Counterfeit guy the reason you’re sayin’ that?”

Sliding his drink back towards him, Arsenal looked down into it, making optic contact with his sad reflection, not saying anything.

“Ah, I see...”

Suddenly, Arsenal took his newly refilled glass and dumped all of its contents down his intake once more. Snaggletooth watched, almost impressed.

“Was he...yer boyfriend or somethin’?”

Arsenal smiled, waves of internal heat washing over him. His helm felt heavy, so he laid it down on top of the bar.

“God, I _wish,”_ he confessed, sliding his empty glass once again towards Snaggletooth.

Again, Snaggletooth refilled it...but a little less this time around.

“He was so nice, and,” Arsenal hiccupped, “and he had a beautiful smile...”

Snaggletooth opened his mouth to say something, but was quickly interrupted.

_ “And a great aft.” _

“Alright, I think I get it.”

Arsenal turned his helm enough to where he could look Snaggletooth in the optics. His face twisted weakly into an angry expression.

“No, you _don’t_ get it,” he spat.

It was Snaggletooth’s turn to say nothing. He reclined back in his seat and took his cygarette back into his maw and started to puff on it again.

“He was the best thing that had ever happened to me,” Arsenal hiccupped again. “...He made me feel...alive…!”

The larger mech nodded and listened.

“But now,” Arsenal continued, looking at his glass and remembering that it was there, _“he’s gone.”_

With that, he sat up momentarily just to chug his half full glass. Then, he _thunked_ his helm back down into the small bar. Snaggletooth watched as, for the third time, Arsenal slid his empty glass towards him.

“I think you’ve had enough, mate...”

“I’ll let you know,” Arsenal hiccupped, “wh-when I’ve had _enough...!”_

Arsenal slid off of his seat and hit the ground clumsily. He gripped the edge of the bar tightly as he tried to regain some balance.

_“C’mon,”_ the over energized mech slurred.

“Where are we goin’?” the gator asked, setting his cygarette back down.

“I’ve decided that I’ve had enough of her. We’re gonna go kill her. _Right now,”_ Arsenal announced, “...just as soon as the room stops spinning...”

“Uh-huh,” Snaggletooth said.

“Pick me up. I’m locked and loaded.”

_“I’ll say,”_ the medic mumbled under his breath. “Don’t ya need to transform first?”

“Oh, right,” Arsenal agreed. But as he began to initiate his transformation sequence, his over energized lines clashed horribly with his t-cog’s relays. Instead of transforming into his alt mode, he collapsed onto the floor.

Snaggletooth shook his helm.

* * *

The room was dark, albeit for the glowing crystals scattered about. Various hues of pinks, purples, yellow greens, and bright blues. Organic textiles hung on the walls and were decorated with various designs, illuminated with fixed lighting. Electronic sticks of incense burned out strings of aromatic smoke.

And there she was, sitting before him on a throne made of some kind of soft material.

_“Hello, Crowbar,”_ the captain said. Her voice was just as soft as her possessions.

“Hello, Tesla,” Crowbar replied. “What do _you_ want?”

Tesla scoffed.

“Don’t be rude. I just want to chat,” she said back to him. “Have a seat. Make yourself _comfortable.”_ She pointed with one of her hands to a seat similar to her own, but much less ornate. Crowbar took it upon himself, _given the circumstances,_ to comply and have a seat. 

As he sat, she rose, and strode towards a counter topped with her personal supply of substances.

_“Would you like one?_ Your aura seems a little _tense,”_ she said, her four arms working to manufacture herself a custom blunt. 

_“Maybe it’s because I’m in excruciating pain from being shot at point blank range,”_ he quipped, “but no thanks. I don’t smoke anymore.”

“That’s a shame. I know how much you liked getting high with me.”

“I’m not the same mech that you once knew,” he said, watching her shapely legs move herself back to her padded throne.

_“That’s clear to see,”_ she replied, taking a drag of her electric rod. “I never would have guessed you would’ve become an Autobot sympathizer...”

“And I never would have guessed my own teammates would sacrifice me to the authorities _to save their own backplates.”_

“Bitterness doesn’t look good on you, Crowbar,” Tesla remarked. “Besides, it was either one of us or all of us. Your sacrifice was _unfortunately_ necessary.”

It was now Crowbar’s turn to scoff.

“So what do you want with me?” he asked, annoyed. _“Cut to the chase.”_

Tesla blew a few rings into the atmosphere, watching them dissipate before her visored optics.

“I want...to make _amends with you.”_

“Save it. I don’t want to hear it,” Crowbar blurted out angrily.

“Well, Crowbar,” she began, _“you’re not really in a position to refuse me.”_

As she spoke, electric current danced between the coiled digits of her three free hands, reminding Crowbar that it would be best if he just obliged her and listened to whatever it was that she had to say.

“Crowbar,” she continued, her voice softening significantly, “...I’ve missed you. And I’m sorry that things turned out the way they did.”

“You only say that because you were using me and _my ability,”_ he hissed, folding his arms in front of his repaired chest plate.

Tesla sighed, her arms adjusting themselves in her lap.

“No, Crowbar. That’s not why I’m saying that. Yes, your skills got us a lot of shanix and energon, but I say that because...I truly miss what we had. Between _us.”_

Crowbar said nothing.

“The day those Autobots took you away..was the worst day of my life. My spark ached for you, Crowbar. It _still does.”_

“I don’t believe you.”

Tesla sighed again.

“Crowbar,” she began again, her vocalizer filled with sorrow, “have you forgotten those long nights we used to have? All the time we spent together in each other’s company after a successful heist? Did they mean _anything_ to you?”

Her voice almost sounded desperate to him.

“I’m not here to dwell on old memories,” he said to her.

“Very well,” Tesla replied. She deactivated her blunt and set it down on the table next to her. As she began to stand again, the electric mech reached into her subspace to retrieve something. “Then we shall make new ones,” she added, handing Crowbar’s plasma knife back to him. With her slender frame towering over him, she smiled.

Crowbar gazed up at her, looking at his own blank expression reflecting off of her visor as he took back his blade.

_ “No.” _

Tesla’s smile quickly dropped into an unamused frown. She watched, her spark sinking by the second, as Crowbar reached into his subspace to swap his knife for his datapad. He pulled up the image of him and Radar that he had shown Counterfeit before they all had left the space station and let her see it.

“I’m with someone else now. And even if there was something between us in the past, I’d rather be _dead_ than be associated with any Decepticons.”

Tesla’s frown then evolved into an open gape filled with mixed emotions.

_“Now, if you can excuse me,_ I need to continue my medical treatment.”

Tesla said absolutely nothing. She got out of his way and let him leave, watching the door shut behind him.

And as she stood there, alone in her private quarters, the mixed emotions she had when looking at the image of her unrequited love being with Radar had finally settled down into one.

_ Rage. _


	17. Change of Plans

While Crowbar and Surge were gone, Shortfuse took the opportunity to look over Counterfeit, focusing on his now missing shoulder plating. He was huffing and puffing as usual, mumbling and grumbling under his breath.

“You should’ve waited for me to remove it instead of just _rippin’ it off…!”_ he chastised.

Counterfeit gave a nervous smile as he continued to lean forward so the minibot could take a good look at him.

“I’m sorry...I just, seeing Crowbar like that...when you said you needed some spare metal my body acted on it’s own...I was just trying to help, that’s all...”

Shortfuse sighed. He wasn’t angry. He couldn’t be. Counterfeit was a sweet spark to the core and meant only well.

As the medic further examined the monoformer, he poked and prodded at the exposed protomesh, gauging the damage. Counterfeit winced at the touches.

“Ow...”

“There’s no major damage, but you’re at risk for infection regardless. Parts of your mesh lining are torn. We’ll need to get you to a proper medbay. One that’s actually supplied and stocked.”

Shortfuse looked up into Counterfeit’s optics, which were sad and anxious. Instinctively, Shortfuse gave the larger mech a gentle pat on the leg.

“Don’t worry. We’re still gonna find him.”

Counterfeit began to smile a little, his spark easing up. The feeling of hopelessness, that small speck of uncertainty that had found its way into his mind when they had become captives aboard this ship, began to fade away.

This was just a minor setback.

_They were still going to find Arsenal._

* * *

Tesla paced back and forth in her room, not knowing what to do with herself. Her spark crackled in her chest with a deep sorrow and anger. She needed to vent or she would explode into an electric mess.

Barging out of her quarters and sealing the door behind her, the captain strutted towards the cockpit of the ship. Her upper pair of arms folded against the front of her chest and her lower limbs positioned themselves upon her hips disapprovingly. The heels of her pedes clacked furiously against the metal plates under her.

If anyone got in her way now she’d fry them to _bits._

She sent a quick comm message to the pilot of the vessel letting him know that she was on her way to talk.

* * *

“It’s damaged beyond function...”

Crowbar held the ruined scraps of the Signal Positioning System given to the group by Mr. Wheeler. He and Surge had tried to salvage what they could from the wreckage of the Cosmic Sunrise, but most of what they had brought with them had either already been looted by the Clean Up Crew or destroyed.

Rising off of his knelt knee-plates, the motorcycle turned to Surge.

“What do we do now?” the minibot asked.

“We should regroup with the others,” was his answer.

It’s what Airstrike would have said.

_...Probably. _

Surge nodded and the pair began to make their way back to the small medbay where Counterfeit and Shortfuse were.

* * *

“Alright, so maybe I wasn’t the _best_ boyfriend to him. But I could’ve been worse, ya know? I mean, I guess I could’ve been _better,_ too..”

Tread didn’t say anything.

He _couldn’t._

He was unable to speak.

Instead, he found himself listening a lot.

And what he heard next was the sound of the cockpit’s entry door opening, along with the clacking of Tesla’s pedes.

She sounded pissed.

Sprocket, who was sitting in the shotgun seat next to Tread, slid out of it and moved to the corner of the cockpit and leaned up against a wall. She sat in what was Sprocket’s chair and crossed one slender leg daintily across the other. Her arms were still folded and bent in agitation.

_“Someone’s pissed,”_ Sprocket chuckled.

“I’m more than _pissed,”_ she hissed back at him.

She could feel the sparks of anger dancing on her glossa.

“We have a serious problem here,” she continued, trying to be as dignified of a captain that she could be, despite the circumstances.

_“I’ll say,”_ Sprocket agreed. “There’s a bomb on the ship and he took my gun.”

Tread swiveled the pilot’s chair to turn and face Sprocket, pressing the tip of his pointer finger into the corner of his optic and dragging it down his cheek with a sarcastic pout to go with it.

“Shut up, wiseaft...” the power cell said, rolling his optics.

Tread laughed a deep laugh in his vocalizer.

“As much as I _hate_ to admit, you’re right, Sprocket. The nuke _is_ a problem. But there’s a bigger problem here. _Crowbar.”_

She paused for a moment.

His name was now bittersweet to say.

“He’s fragging _Radar.”_

_His_ name was now _repulsive_ to say.

Tread turned to her and flashed a confused and shocked look.

“What the _hell?”_ the indigo mech blurted out.

“He showed me a picture on his datapad. They’re obviously _very affectionate.”_

Tesla wanted to _throw up._

Or _hurt someone._

Most likely Radar.

“I don’t even get what he sees in him anyway. Radar is _ugly,”_ Tesla said with venom laced words.

Tread sat in the pilot’s seat listening to what his captain had to say. It was quite clear to him that she was hurting deeply. Even before she had come into the cockpit, before she had messaged him saying that she needed to talk, before they discovered who was aboard the ship that was tracking Traffic’s ship, _he knew she was hurting._

Tesla _loved_ Crowbar.

_ She still did. _

Tread remembered when the Autobot officers took Crowbar away. He had never seen Tesla cry before that day. When the war finally broke out and mechs began picking sides, it was no surprise that she’d immediately join the Decepticons. It was a revenge mission, a rescue mission of sorts, and Tread knew it. 

Of course, he and Sprocket went along with her.  But being assigned the Clean Up Crew, taking care of what little mess or inconvenience that would endanger the cause of the Decepticon faction, came with a price.  And that price was loyalty and devotion to it.

Unfortunately in this case, being given the order to eliminate an unknown threat now meant to kill the mech that they all cared for, that they had been searching for and missed.

Even _Sprocket_ missed Crowbar.

But Crowbar was a different person now, like a stranger, and that was painful to see. 

It was painful for _all of them to see._

Tread took one of Telsa’s many hands into his own and began to sign his response.

_ “What do we do?” _

The captain sighed.

“I don’t know what to do, Tread...”

_“Frag_ the Decepticons...!” Sprocket blurted out from the corner of the room. “I didn’t sign up for _this.”_

Sprocket, despite being as unlikable of a person that he was to many, was beating himself up so much for shooting Crowbar.

He could have killed him. He was prepared to do it. But at the last minute, he couldn’t aim for his spark.

He would have rather pointed the end of the blaster’s barrel at his own.

“Neither did _I,”_ Tesla agreed.

They sat there for a moment in unspoken feelings, thinking to themselves. But after the moment had passed, she spoke up again.

“I think,” she began, “Our time with the Decepticons _is over.”_

This certainly caught the attention of the other two.

_“What do you mean?”_ Tread hand-spoke back to her.

“What did he say?” Sprocket asked.

“He’s asking me what I mean,” she said. “So listen up, boys. _Here’s the new plan.”_

* * *

It was now Crowbar’s turn to be looked over by Shortfuse. The CMO checked over the work he and Surge had desperately put into his gaping wound and saw that it was holding up nicely. Still, both he and Counterfeit needed proper medical treatment.

“How’d it go with _Her Majesty?”_ Shortfuse asked bitterly, checking the seams of Counterfeit’s plating fusing to Crowbar’s abdomen.

“Well, I managed to piss her off. But in my defense that’s never really hard to do,” the motorcycle confessed.

“We checked the wreckage on our way back. Everything was either taken or destroyed,” said Surge.

“Even the…?” Counterfeit asked, not wanting to finish his question.

_“...Yeah,”_ Surge answered back in a regretful tone.

This made Counterfeit feel very discouraged about their journey now. How were they supposed to track Arsenal’s signal now? How were they supposed to leave to go find him? Hopelessness began to creep back into the monoformer’s spark, gnawing at it.

He wondered how Arsenal was doing.

* * *

Arsenal was slumped over the can inside of his room’s Waste Closet. He gripped the sides of it, feeling another wave of nausea radiating from his tank. The wave rose from his internals and he heaved once again, throwing up all the liquid he had thrown back in Snaggletooth’s room. 

He felt awful.

All he could remember was talking with the beastformer about something and then blacking out.

He pondered how he had even gotten back to his room. He had woken up from his over-energized stupor on his berth. From the amount of engex he was throwing up there was no possible way he had made it to his berth on his own.

...Unless someone had carried him there.

* * *

Tesla sat in the pilot’s chair in front of Tread’s terminal, which also functioned as a sort of command hub. Her four hands went to work opening a communication channel and preparing a video file from the ship’s security camera feed.

She was alone in the cockpit and waited for her call to go through.

She was smirking _devilishly._

After a few moments, the receiver’s face appeared on a projected screen in front of her.

“Ah, Tesla! I was just about to call you for a status report. Did you take care of whoever was following Traffic and her team?” Radar asked.

_“Not exactly,”_ she hummed.

The satellite dish gave a puzzled look.

_ “Elaborate.” _

“How about I show you instead?”

From his end, Radar got a notification from his station that a video file was being sent to him. After a few moments, the file had been downloaded and he opened it, watching in horror as Sprocket shot Crowbar, sending his beloved recoiling back and slumping into a pool of his own energon.

_“Crowbar!!”_ Radar exclaimed in a tank-wrenching panic. He shot up from his seat, his optics wide and in shock, fixating on the sight before him.

“Don’t worry. Your little _boyfriend_ still functions, along with the others he had with him.”

“Oh, thank God... Wait, _how do you…?”_

“Turns out Crowbar is quick to kiss and tell,” she said disdainfully.

“Tesla,” Radar began, “return to base at once, with everyone on board _alive...!”_

“How about you go _frag yourself.”_

Radar’s jaw hinge dropped.

_“Excuse me?!?_ What did you _say?!”_

“Oh, I’m sorry. Let me repeat myself more clearly.”

Tesla reset her vocalizer, then leaned forward towards the audio input receptor.

“Take your backwards legged, ugly aft and go _frag yourself.”_

Radar was speechless.

But not for long.

“I am your superior ranking officer! How _dare_ you speak to me like that!”

“How dare you keep that hideous paint job,” she retorted.

Radar scoffed.

“Tesla, I don’t know _what_ has gotten into you, but I demand you return here at once!”

“I’ll tell you what’s gotten into me. This _damn Decepticon charade_ you’re pulling.”

“What are you _talking about?!”_

“We’re done, you overgrown _hubcap._ We’re done doing your dirty work. I’m taking my mechs and going. ”

“Not without any consequences you _won’t,”_ Radar snarled, his fingers dancing across his keyboard.

_“Ah-ah-ah, I wouldn’t do that if I were you,”_ she cooed.

_“Oh?_ And _why not?_ Afraid to die a _traitor’s death?”_

_“No,”_ she answered smugly, _“I’m afraid of having to finish the job and kill Crowbar myself before whatever lackeys you send show up,”_ she bluffed.

Radar’s fingers stopped, and he began reflecting quickly on her words that he believed were true.

“So, is that all? _You just want to leave the Decepticons?”_

_“Yes,”_ the coil answered, “So I’ll make a deal with you. I’ll send Crowbar and his ragtag group of friends to you if you let Tread, Sprocket, and I go _freely.”_

She wasn’t giving him a choice, but Radar was used to making difficult decisions during difficult times.

_“Fine,”_ he agreed. “Put the base’s coordinates into the guiding system of one of your escape shuttles and send them here. If I don’t see Crowbar in a few cycles you can consider yourself _dead.”_

Tesla only smiled and disconnected their call.

_ “Go to hell.” _


	18. Borrowed Time

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Trigger Warning: This chapter contains assault, graphic violence, and suicide. Please be cautious if you choose to read.

There was a somber silence inside of the small medbay as Shortfuse finished looking over Crowbar’s abdomen. An air of uncertainty filled the room, and sparks flickered against the darkness of an unknown future.

They had come this far...was this the end?

“Alright. It looks like your nanites have accepted Counterfeit’s plating, but it’s going to be a while before you’re completely healed. You’re stable.”

Crowbar said nothing, but it was good news to hear. Given where they were, any news would be good news.

Shortfuse looked around at the younger mechs and read the room. It pissed him off. Being a veteran of Cybertron’s Army, he had been in much worse scenarios.

It was time to show these young sparks how it’s done.

“ENOUGH MOPIN’ AROUND,” he shouted.

The other three mechs’ attention turned to the minibot.

Shortfuse opened up his subspace and retrieved Sprocket’s blaster. He turned the safety off and it began to glow up the barrel, humming to life.

“WE’RE GETTIN’ THE HELL OUTTA HERE.”

* * *

Snaggletooth left his quarters to return to the command terminal of the  Good Times. He figured he’d check on the status of their journey. Surely, they wouldn’t have too much longer before they reached the Decepticon base in this sector.

As the beastformer walked down the corridor to the ship’s bridge,  he saw Traffic standing at the end of it.

It was too late for him to turn back, so he swallowed hard and looked forward. As his clawed pedes moved him closer towards her, he could see that she leaned against the side of the corridor’s paneling with her arms folded over her windshielded chest.

_ Not a good sign. _

When the gatormech reached the end of the hallway,  just about to walk past her,  _ that’s _ _when she moved._

Like a flash of lightning, she had him pinned to the opposite side paneling, her grip tightening around his throat, drawing out a strained wheeze from his vocalizer.  He clawed at her arm, his  _ two _ trying to fight against her  _ one. _

But she was too strong.

“You know what I like most about you, Snaggletooth?” she asked, her mouth twisting into a wicked grin.

He didn’t even try to answer her.

There was no point.

“I like the fear in your optics when you look at me. _It suits you.”_

Snaggletooth moved his arms down to his side, defeated. There wasn’t anything he could do against her. 

He was powerless.

_ Weak. _

He hated it.

Hated himself because of it.

Because of  _ her. _

Traffic chuckled deep from her throat, her grin turning smug. She pressed her frame close against him, pinning him further against the metal wall. The armored vehicle leaned her helm to the side of his, her lips almost touching his audio receptor.

_“That’s not the only thing I like about you, Snag,”_ she cooed, emphasizing her words with some added pressure from her hip plating to his.

Snaggletooth’s mental processor began going hazy, preparing himself for whatever she was about to do to him. As long as he didn’t move too much or say too much, and just let her do what she was going to do, he’d be alright.

_ But deep down inside,  he was far from being it. _

The next thing he knew, Snaggletooth could feel her lips on his neck cables, kissing them possessively. Instinctively, he cut off his vocalizer, because Primus only knew whether or not the next sound he’d make would be a growl or a whine.

Surprisingly enough, she had stopped kissing his cables and moved her mouth back to his audial.

“But there is  one thing I _don’t_ like,” she continued, her voice sounding more antagonizing.

Traffic’s grip around his throat tightened, almost to the point of making his voice box crack.

_ “I don’t like being lied to.” _

The grip became tighter, and Snaggletooth’s internal system began alerting him about the increasing pressure and potential damage if she continued.

And he was preparing himself for _just that._

“Lie to me again, and I’ll do to Arsenal what I did to Artillery. And I’ll make you watch and clean up afterwards, just like last time.”

With that, she released her grip and began to walk away down the corridor. Snaggletooth clutched his throat and rubbed it tenderly, thanking Primus she hadn’t done  anything else.

As he started to walk back towards the bridge, trying to push back his current thoughts and memories, the sound of her voice stopped him.

“I’ll be in your room in ten minutes. _I suggest you be there.”_

* * *

Sprocket had almost finished loading up one of the escape pods with enough fuel to last the trip from their current position in space to the Decepticon Base. It was a pretty sloppy job, but he didn’t care.

What he _did_ care about was the sound of the captain’s heels clacking closer and closer to where he was.

“Is the escape pod fully equipped?” Tesla asked somberly.

“Yeah,” Sprocket replied, “But I didn’t give ‘em the good stuff. Just basic ‘gon.”

The tesla coil gave an affirmative hum, then turned to walk back to her quarters.

But Sprocket had something to say first.

“I couldn’t do it, Tes...I couldn’t kill him...”

“I know,” she said back. “I don’t think any of us could have.”

There was a silence between the two, until Sprocket spoke up again.

“So, what happens to us now?” the power cell asked.

“We send them back to Radar and we find the nearest fueling station.”

“And then what?”

“I don’t know, Sprocket...”

She had hoped Crowbar would have rejoined them and help figure out the details.

* * *

All optics were now focused on Shortfuse, who looked as though he was ready to storm the place.

“You  _ can’t _ be serious...” said Crowbar.

“You got any better ideas,  Mr. Autobot?” the warhead asked sarcastically.

“I...”

_“...I_ do,” Counterfeit interrupted, nervously fidgeting with his hands.

Shortfuse held the weapon down to his side and gave his attention to the monoformer, as did the other two mechs.

“Well, what is it, son?”

“I...was wondering why this ship’s layout looked so familiar to me,” the wine colored mech began, not really looking at Shortfuse in the optics.  “And then it hit me. This is an old mining extractor craft. I used to fly a ship like this back on Cybertron. Back when I worked as a miner.” He paused for a moment, thinking back on his days as a mining pilot. He loved that job. It made him feel equal with his transforming peers as they worked together for the good of Cybertron, their shared home. “There should be some detachable cargo pods. They’re pilotable, but kinda small,” he finished.

Crowbar and Surge turned their helms to Shortfuse to gauge his reaction. They had determined that with his seniority he’d be leading them into whatever decision they agreed on. The trio of young mechs looked and watched as the older mech nodded.

“Do you know where these pods are?” he asked the monoformer.

“I think so...”

“You  _ think _ so?!” Crowbar criticized.

_ There was that tone again. _

“Hey, shut up,” Surge interrupted. “It’s not like _you’ve_ got any ideas.”

Crowbar folded his arms over his chest and huffed.

“I say it’s worth a shot,” Shortfuse finally answered. Lifting the weapon back up into his arms, he shot them all a determined look.  “Lead the way, son.”

* * *

Arsenal had finished throwing up the high grade he nearly drowned his system in and lied on his berth, still feeling a bit queasy.

At least _now_ he knew he  could get over energized.

As he lied there on his berth, he could hear the disgusting sounds of Traffic having her way with Snaggletooth. The gunformer turned on his side and switched off his audials.

He wanted to lie there in silence, alone with his thoughts.

...But all thoughts led to Counterfeit.

The grey mech curled himself inward and tried not to think about him.

It hurt too much.

Instead, he thought about the things he and Snaggletooth had discussed before he passed out.

About killing Traffic.

* * *

Counterfeit was at the door of the medbay with Shortfuse right behind him, blaster in hand. Crowbar and Surge stood behind them to follow.  But as soon as Counterfeit opened the door, a large, dark grey mech stood at the doorway.

Shortfuse didn’t hesitate to step forward, pressing against Counterfeit’s leg to nudge him out of the way. He pointed the end of the barrel right at Tread’s face, his finger curling over the trigger ready to pull it.

Seeing his former amica in the line of fire made something click inside Crowbar’s mind.

Or maybe it was in his spark.

“NO, DON’T SHOOT…!” Crowbar heard himself shout, rushing forward to bridge the space between Shortfuse and his target.

“SON, GET OUT OF THE WAY,” Shortfuse shouted back.  “HE’S THE ENEMY.”

“HE’S  HARMLESS,” Crowbar blurted out.

The nuke looked past Crowbar’s frame and up into Tread’s optics. The large vehicle slowly began raising his hands up, signaling that he was unarmed and a non threat. 

Shortfuse growled as he lowered the blaster.

* * *

Tread sat on his knee plates in the small medbay. Crowbar stood in front of him, his forearms extended towards the other as the larger mech moved his hands over and around them intricately.

“Surge, what are they doing?” Counterfeit whispered to his friend near the back of the room.

“I don’t know,” Surge admitted, whispering back to him.  “I’ve never seen it before...”

Crowbar watched intently as Tread signed over his hands and through his fingers.

_ “I wanted to see you before you left,” _ Tread signed.

_ “What are you talking about?,” _ Crowbar signed back.

_ “We've prepared an escape pod for you. You’re being sent to the closest neutral outpost.”  _ Crowbar looked up into Tread’s optics, which were sorrowful.  _ “Crowbar, don’t go,” _ Tread signed sadly.  _ “Please stay.” _

The motorcycle pulled his hands away from the four-wheeler’s, his spark now fizzling with mixed emotions laced with old memories.  The smaller mech then turned towards his cohorts from Satellite.

“They’ve already got one of those cargo pods ready for us. They’re letting us leave.”

* * *

The Good Times landed at the Decepticon base on schedule, settling down on the landing platform, ready to take its next shipment of energon to the Satellite Space Station. When they arrived, however, the next shipment wasn’t ready to be taken yet. In fact, another vessel had just left to deliver theirs.

“Standby until Radar gives the word,” Traffic said, walking off into the base.

Snaggletooth took out his tin of cigarettes and popped one into his mouth, leaning against the ship.

“Good fragging _riddance,”_ he thought, venting out smoke. As he watched her walk into the facility, he sensed a small presence standing next to him.

It was Arsenal.

He looked down at the grey mech. He too was watching Traffic walk away. When she was no longer in their line of sight, he turned his helm up to look at him in the optics.

“Once I get her in on the bridge of the smelting zone I’ll shoot a signal flare,” Arsenal said.

It was the first time Snaggletooth had ever heard him sound confident.

“A’ight, mate,” he nodded, sucking on his cygarette.

Arsenal nodded back, then began walking off himself.

He wanted to finish what Artillery had started.

* * *

Tread lead Counterfeit, Crowbar, Shortfuse, and Surge to their prepared escape pod, where they crammed themselves inside. It was smaller than the Cosmic Sunrise, so fitting a monoformer, two minis, and a motorcycle was a bit tight. As soon as the group got as comfortable as they could, the large mech closed them in, and initiated the launching sequence.

Counterfeit sat in the pilot’s seat, where he was trying to get control over the pod’s navigation system but to no avail.

“It’s locked,” he announced. “The pod’s been put into autopilot with pre-determined coordinates...”

“Well, wherever we’re being sent to, I hope it’s got some decent communication setup so we can call the station,” said Shortfuse.

“However long  _that’ll_ take,” added Surge pessimistically.

While they were talking, Crowbar was looking through the rear window and into the Clean Up Crew’s ship. He could see Tread walking away and rubbing at his optics. Crowbar’s feelings for his old teammates had been repressed, and the even stronger feelings toward his old amica endura he _painfully ignored._

Crowbar turned his attention back to the three mechs he had been growing closer to.

“Is there any indication of where this thing is headed to?” he asked Counterfeit.

“Umm, yeah. Hold on,” the monoformer replied. After a moment of relearning the cargo pod’s functions, he was able to pull up the coordinates of their destination on the main monitor.

As soon as he saw them, Crowbar’s optics grew wide and his spark pulsed violently in his chest.

_ He knew those coordinates. _

He had them memorized the day Radar had left to _go there._

They were the coordinates of Satellite’s Energon Facility.

* * *

Arsenal had only seen him on a few occasions, but not nearly as close in person as they were now. He sat on a small sofa against a wall as the taller mech had swiveled himself around in his office chair to face him.

“What is it that you need to tell me?” Radar asked.

* * *

Crowbar’s optics twinkled as he saw the asteroid belt come into view. He could feel the vial of his innermost energon burning a hole through his subspace. He knew that he was on an assignment by Airstrike...but just the  _ thought _ of seeing Radar again was clouding his main objective.

He couldn’t help it. It had been hundreds of years since he had seen his beloved, _maybe longer._ Crowbar had stopped counting after a while. 

It was too painful.

He didn’t like being away from Radar. Away from his smile, his gorgeous legs, his…

...Crowbar could feel his faceplates begin to heat up as his thoughts about Radar became  _ much more intimate and personal. _

But his private thoughts were interrupted by the sound of the landing gear being retracted from the underside of the craft. Immediately, he began comm’ing Radar. He knew there’d be no delay in reaching him with them being so close in the same vicinity.

* * *

As if Radar wasn’t already in a bad enough mood, now that _Autobot enthused boyfriend of his_ was giving him a call, and he knew he had to take it. The satellite dish massaged the space between his optics as he accepted the incoming call to his personal comm line.

“Crowbar!” he exclaimed. “My darling, how are you? It’s so wonderful for you to call me,” he said, trying to be as genuine as he could.

After the conversation with Arsenal, the  _ last  _ thing he wanted to do was talk to Crowbar right now.

“Radar, you are not going to believe this, but I’m actually here! I’m here on your landing platform!” Crowbar exclaimed excitedly.

The white mech managed to let out a fake gasp of surprise.

_“Crowbar of Iacon,_ are you serious?!” he asked, sounding delighted.

“It’s a bit of a long story, but yes. Anyway, where are you? I need to speak with you...privately.”

_“Oh, yes._ Of course, _my love,”_ Radar cooed, making Crowbar’s frame go on _full alert._ “I’ll send you a quick map of the compound and show you where my office is. I never leave it, it seems,” he laughed as he sent the image file to Crowbar.

“I’m on my way,” Crowbar announced proudly.

_“I’m sure you are,”_ Radar thought to himself, a lot less enthusiastically.

* * *

Crowbar had left to go see Radar, leaving Counterfeit, Shortfuse, and Surge on the tarmac. “I’ll be back shortly,” he had told them.

“I hope so,” Shortfuse had huffed.

The three mechs stood by the escape pod waiting for Crowbar to return. They looked around, watching an assortment of different mechs coming and going. After a while, Shortfuse and Surge were in the escape pod going over the remaining inventory that the Clean Up Crew had given them while the taller mech remained outside. Counterfeit smiled as he watched the workers going from point a to point b, thinking back to his old job as a miner. But the monoformer’s smile faded as he saw a large mech, looking quite cross, storming towards someone. There was a beastformer sitting on a crate in front of a cargo ship smoking.

“I just finished having a private chat with Radar. That _fragger_ told him everything!” she hissed, fists clenched. _“Where is he?!”_

“I think he said something about hanging around the smelters,” Snaggletooth said, his fuel tank twisting into knots. This was it. It was go-time. He just had to wait for Arsenal’s signal.

“Arsenal’s a _dead mech,”_ she said, turning around and going back into the facility.

Counterfeit, who had initially felt bad for eavesdropping, stopped caring that he had done it when he heard _that name_. Everything seemed to stop after the black mech had said it. His spark and mental processing began to race, repeating the name 'Arsenal' over and over again.

_“Is Arnie here?!”_ he thought to himself.

He was determined to find out, so he began following the angry mech from a distance, hoping to be lead to the one that he had been looking for this whole time.

* * *

Radar vented hard, collecting himself. He was sprawled out on the loveseat in his small office space almost exhausted. Crowbar stood over him, after having cleaned both of them up, completely satisfied with _what they had finished doing._

After all this time, he hadn’t lost his touch.

_“Oh, Crowbar,”_ Radar cooed, venting out again, “darling, I’ve missed you _so much.”_ His frame felt weak, and the ache for an intimate, physical need had been dispelled. _“Oh, how I’ve missed you,”_ he said blissfully.

Crowbar couldn’t help but grin as his pride as a lover swelled. He looked down at Radar as he stood over him, admiring the "accidental" paint transfers he had left on the slender mech.

They looked good on him, Crowbar thought.

“I don’t know if you noticed,” the motorcycle grinned, _“but I missed you as well.”_

Radar laughed airily.

“I _felt.”_ The satellite dish’s mental circuitry was recovering from post-overload, but his optics were fixed on Crowbar. He smiled at him, his carnal programming still very much online. _“Crowbar, come here,”_ he said sweetly, almost desperately. _“Kiss me,”_ he sighed. But Crowbar wasn’t paying attention to him at the moment, which confused him. His face was turned away, and there was an unhappy expression on it. “Darling, what is it?” he asked, sitting himself up with his elbow joint. His optics followed Crowbar’s gaze to find what he was staring at so bitterly.

_...It was his Decepticon faction badge that he had left on his desk. _

* * *

“Darling, wait!!” Radar shouted, his digitigrade legs going into overdrive to keep up with Crowbar’s fast strides. “I can explain!!”

“SAVE IT,” Crowbar yelled back. “I DON’T WANT TO HEAR IT.”

“Crowbar, you’re overreacting! Don’t do this!”

That was when he stopped and turned to his _new ex._ He reached into his subspace and pulled out the vial of his innermost energon he was going to propose to Radar with. He threw it down onto the metal floor and Radar’s jaw fell open as the contents of it shattered and bled out. Radar looked back up at Crowbar who looked at him with an angry and wounded face. He transformed and drove off down the hall.

No one can see you cry when you’re in your alt mode.

* * *

Arsenal stood on the bridge that connected two different buildings on the asteroid. He looked over the several tanks of molten energon that surrounded him. His optical glass reflected the bright pink hues that bubbled below. His spark was anxious as he thought about seeing Traffic at any moment. The only ease his mind would give him was the thought of Traffic drowning and melting away.

On cue, he heard the familiar sound of her pede steps approaching him. He could feel the flare in his firing system ready to go. 

There was no turning back now.

* * *

_“No, no, no,”_ Radar thought out loud. “This is _not_ how things were supposed to go! Damn it all!” he cursed. He sat back in his chair and quickly went to work, pulling up security camera feeds on his multiple terminal screens. He was looking for Crowbar, but something else caught his attention. He squinted and leaned forward to make sure what he was seeing was actually happening.

* * *

Arsenal was too slow. Traffic had already grabbed his left arm which served as his barrel. His optics grew wide in fear as she squeezed hard, crushing the metal around his wrist joint. He started to cry out, but she quickly gripped his face with her other servo, silencing him. He looked up into her burning red optics and started crying. There was no doubt in his mind that she was about to murder him.

“Save your tears for the Afterspark,” she growled, dropping him onto the ground. She dealt a swift kick into his abdomen, sending him into one of the short towers on the bridge.

_ But she wasn’t done. _

Traffic continued her assault into him, slamming her pede into his torso over and over, denting him terribly as if he was nothing more than a tin can. His own energon erupted from his mouth as his internal alarm systems rang in his head reporting the damage and trauma of his frame. His optics flickered as his internals screamed in agony. He couldn’t move. His half dead frame could only slump forward a bit and choke out more energon. 

When she had stopped, Arsenal did his best, with what little life he had left, to look up at her. She stood in front of him, fists clenched like they were ready to go next. He swallowed, tasting his own life fluid. He braced himself for her next attack, hoping that it would end him quickly. 

He was ready for the suffering to end.

But what he _wasn’t_ ready for, what he _wasn’t_ expecting, was a sudden flash of color before his fading visuals. With his systems failing and on the verge of a total shutdown, it took him a moment to recognize the person who had just socked Traffic in the face, sending her backwards.

It was Counterfeit.

* * *

Something was wrong. 

Snaggletooth could feel it.

“Arsenal should have sent out the flare by now,” he thought to himself, tossing the used cygarette onto the tarmac. He crushed it under his pede and started to head toward the smelting zone to investigate.

* * *

Surely, this was the Afterspark.

Arsenal watched lazily, trying to keep himself online, as Counterfeit fought Traffic like a professional arena fighter. His optics began to lubricate again and tears fell down his cheeks, mingling with the energon that the armored vehicle had kicked out of him.

“...C—”

He couldn’t get his vocalizer to function. All of his internal system’s processes were prioritizing keeping him alive. Talking would have to wait, but _Primus_ how he wished he could. He wanted to say his name so terribly. It was the only thing, he felt, that was keeping him conscious.

_ Counterfeit. _

He tried to move, he did. But his frame was too heavy right now. But he could move his helm a little, and his optics. They followed the monoformer as he brutalized Traffic. It was wonderful. It was the second most beautiful thing he had ever seen in his entire functioning. _And then there was that feeling again._ That mysterious feeling that welled up in his spark when he was with Counterfeit at the Circuit Saloon.

It was then that he felt everything starting to go black, and he sighed, thinking that if he onlined again, he might tell Counterfeit about that mysterious feeling.

Maybe he felt it, too.

* * *

Snaggletooth looked down the bridge and what he saw made him freeze. Traffic had been knocked out cold from the looks of it, and she lied on her back plates completely motionless. Arsenal was being looked over by some mech that had just arrived with those other strangers not too long ago.

The gatormech shook himself and hustled over to the pair.

“What the hell?!” was all he could manage to say.

“Arnie’s hurt,” Counterfeit blurted out, holding the smaller mech in his trembling arms. “He’s hurt _real bad,”_ his vocalizer outputted shakily.

It wasn’t hard for Snaggletooth to figure out who that Traffic was the one who had put him in this condition.

“Don’t worry, I’m a medic,” the beastformer said, trying to console the hunky mech. He looked over Arsenal and with just a quick optical scan he knew that he would need more than just basic first aid. What he needed was surgery, most likely. If he survived, he’d definitely be hospitalized for a while.

Arsenal was in _bad_ shape.

“Take him back to my ship, the one I was sitting in front of. I’ve got a small medbay there,” he added.

"I'll get Surge and Shortfuse to look at him. They're medics, too."

_ "Go." _

Counterfeit didn't think twice. He stood, carrying Arsenal in his arms, _and ran._

* * *

“Good luck explaining that to _Counterfeit,”_ Surge said to Crowbar. “He’s not going to be too happy to hear it.”

“Well, he’ll just have to get over it,” Crowbar said bitterly. “Radar is of no help to us. We'll have to rely on Synchron, or that Mr. Wheeler person...”

Shortfuse was about to add his two shanix when he saw Counterfeit running at full speed back onto the tarmac carrying something. But he wasn’t running towards _them._ He ran and headed into the large cargo ship that the beastformer was smoking in front of. Then it occurred to him that it wasn’t a some _thing_ that he was carrying, but a some _one._

“SURGE, COME WITH ME,” he bellowed, running after Counterfeit and what looked like a mangled Arsenal. 

Under normal circumstances, Surge would have asked him what was going on, but Shortfuse was using his _‘if you don’t come with me someone’s going to die’_ medic tone of voice and that he didn’t question.

Crowbar, clueless as ever, eventually followed the minibots into the vessel.

* * *

Snaggletooth stood now in front of Traffic’s unconscious form. It was at this moment that he took a good look at her. His tank began to churn again as he did. He had decided that he had had enough of her. He turned away, hoping to never see her again. He was going to help Arsenal, then head out into the stars.

_ Decepticons be damned. The lot of 'em. _

He turned his back to Traffic and prepared to sprint back to the Good Times.

_ That was a mistake. _

Snaggletooth got a few good pede steps in before there was a quick sting, then a sudden burning feeling on his back. It only took him a few nanokliks to realize he had been shot. He turned to see Traffic with a miniblaster in hand, easing herself up.

“Oh, _no,”_ she coughed out, _“Don’t even think about it.”_ He watched his abuser rise up, pointing the blaster at him. “You’re just as traitorous as _he_ is,” she added.

At first, Snaggletooth didn’t say anything. He remained silent.

But then he started to grin wildly.

And _then_ he started to laugh.

“What’s so funny?” she spat.

_“Not a damn thing.”_

Snaggletooth transformed into his beastmode and charged at her.

* * *

There weren’t that many rooms on the Good Times, so the process of elimination to find the makeshift medbay was a fast one. Unfortunately, the patient table Snaggletooth normally used didn’t accommodate a minibot doctor and his minibot nurse. _Fortunately enough,_ there were some tool crates and storage boxes in the room for them to stand on top of.

Counterfeit watched in horror as they dug into Arsenal’s stained and dented frame. It made him _angry._ Just like when he saw that big mech beating him up. He couldn’t control himself, seeing Arsenal getting roughed up like that. His fighter programming that he had been repressing since he gotten into that argument with Mr. Wheeler came online full throttle. It was as if he had never left the underground arena and he was just in another match.

_ He wondered if Arsenal had seen him be violent. _

That made his spark sink. Arsenal would probably think he’s no better than the mech who had beaten him up. 

Counterfeit frowned, thinking about this.

But the feeling of a servo resting on the side of his arm snapped him away from his thoughts for a moment.

“He’ll be ok,” Crowbar said, knocking on his abdomen with his other hand, emphasizing the work that the minibot medic pair had done on him. He smiled at Counterfeit, trying to be genuinely comforting and friendly.

Maybe if he tried hard enough, Counterfeit might consider him...a friend.

* * *

Traffic did her best to wrestle the metal gator, but in this form he was _much stronger than her._ The best she could do was grip the ends of his snout and keep them apart, Otherwise, he’d clamp down on her. She peered inside the beast’s maw and saw two, glowing red optics staring back at her. Snaggletooth growled loudly, his vocalizer echoing a raw rumbling sound. The sound was accompanied by a large, clawed front foot tearing into her leg, peeling off plating and kibble like it was nothing.

Her arms were starting to get tired, and if she didn’t think of something quick she would either be chomped to bits or clawed to death. Using the last of the strength in her arms, she forced the massive jaws apart, as wide as she could make them, causing the crocodile to shake his head to be freed from the pressure.

That was _her mistake._

He shook free, and in the blink of an optic, he had her leg clamped firmly in his teeth. He didn’t give her the courtesy of letting her process that he had it.

She didn’t deserve it.

Without hesitation, he pulled, and tore the appendage off. She _wailed_ in pain, energon gushing out of the horrible wound at a fast pace. He went for the other one with no resistance.

“Snaggletooth, _please…!”_ she choked out, watching her frame being mauled by the mech she had destroyed on the inside. _“Mercy!!”_

:: THERE’S NO MERCY FOR MECHS LIKE YOU. ::

He swept his tail against the metal spokes of the bridge as he sent her the comm message. After he had created a big enough space for him to slip through, he started to drag her with him. She realized what his plan was and she began to panic.

_“NO!”_ she screamed.

That was the last word she said before they both fell into the molten tank of energon below.

* * *

“We need to get him to a hospital,” Shortfuse said aloud. He had opened Arsenal’s torso and had mended and patched up his internals the best that he could given the current equipment available to him. “He’s just _barely_ stable, but if he’s not given proper treatment...” The medic didn’t finish his sentence. Counterfeit’s face was just too sad looking for him to do it.

The monoformer left the room.

“I’ll go talk to him,” Surge said, going after the other.

* * *

Shortfuse was cleaning Arsenal’s frame as best he could, wiping up the energon that had been mercilessly kicked out of him. He shook his helm, thinking back to when he first saw him coming into the Minor Surgery Center with a torn off arm. _“Had I known this would happen to you I would have reinforced you when I had the chance,”_ he thought to himself.

Crowbar had made himself comfortable sitting on one of the storage boxes in the medbay.

He sighed.

“You alright there, son?” Shorftuse said aloud.

_ No. _

His boyfriend, or rather, _ex boyfriend,_ is a Decepticon and had been lying to him this entire time, leading him on and playing him for a fool.

That’s what he felt like.

Crowbar felt like _a fool._

“I broke up with Radar,” he said, trying to sound emotionless.

“I’m sorry to hear that,” Shortfuse replied. “But you’ll move on. And the pain will go away with time, trust me.”

“I...didn’t _want_ any advice,” said Crowbar.

“I know you didn’t, but sometimes it’s not about what you want but what you _need.”_

* * *

Surge walked around the corridor of the ship until he had found Counterfeit, sitting down at the pilot’s seat, touching the controls. He was going to tell him that Arsenal would be fine, just to reassure him, but Counterfeit was being _a little too suspicious._

_“Counterfeit...”_ he began, “what are you _doing…?”_

Counterfeit didn’t move from his spot, nor did he stop what he was attempting to do.

“Surge, I’m about to do a bad thing. Like, really bad...”

“What are you about to do?” Surge asked, sounding both concerned and confused.

_ “I’m about to steal this ship.” _

* * *

Radar was completely frazzled.

Not only did his long time love dump him, he was going to propose as well! _Was_ being the key word there. The satellite cursed at himself, wishing he could go back in time long enough to stuff that faction badge deep in his subspace. Oh, well. There was no time to worry about that now.

Radar was currently in the middle of trying to complete a report to send up to Decepticon high command. Specifically, _his commander._ What Traffic had been doing behind his back was not to be go unnoted. And by the look of things in the security footage he had watched in between tasks, she wouldn’t be causing him anymore problems.

“Thank _Primus,”_ he thought to himself, continuing on with his work.

But his continuation was short lived, as he was receiving an incoming call from one of the base’s security mechs.

“This is Radar,” he said.

“Sir, we’ve got a craft trying to leave without clearance...”

_ “EXCUSE ME?!” _

* * *

“There’s only one problem,” Counterfeit said to his short friend.

“What’s that?”

“There’s an authorization code for ignition...and I don’t know it...”

_“I do,”_ said a husky voice.

The pair turned around to see the beastformer that they had seen before, now dripping with hot energon down his frame.

“Are you alright, Mister?” Counterfeit asked the medic. Any normal mech’s frame would’ve been melted or damaged with contact of such molten material, but Snaggletooth was completely fine.

“Oh, yeah,” the gator mech said back, going over to his rightful place as the Good Times pilot and true captain. “Just needed a bit of a quick dip, take care of some personal matters. The name’s Snaggletooth by the way. And if you don’t mind, you’re in my seat, mate.”

“Oh, sorry,” Counterfeit apologized. “I’m Counterfeit, and this is Surge,” he added, getting out of the pilot’s seat.

“A pleasure,” he said gruffly. “How’s Arsenal doing?” Snaggletooth asked, initiating the launching sequences for takeoff.

“The sooner we get to Satellite the better,” Surge replied. “He’s in very poor condition.”

_“Bless him,”_ sighed Snaggletooth.

“...Who was that person...the one who did that to him? Do you know?” Counterfeit asked, trying not to sound angry or upset as he recalled the way Arsenal had been battered.

_“Dead,”_ Snaggletooth answered. _“She’s dead.”_

“IS THIS SHIP GOING TO TAKE OFF OR NOT?!” asked a familiar, angry voice. Snaggletooth swiveled his chair around to see a minibot with folded arms at him and a taller mech following behind him with a blaster in his arms.

It was Arsenal.

_“OI!_ She’s warmin’ up,” Snaggletooth hissed. “Give ‘er a second...!”

“Here,” Crowbar said softly, approaching Counterfeit. “You hold him.”

_“Him?”_ Counterfeit thought, taking the weapon from Crowbar.

“He’s more stabilized in his alt mode. The shift in his mass gives his nanites less volume to work with. He’s better off this way until Torque can give him better treatment,” Shortfuse said.

“Arsenal is a trooper, that’s for damn sure,” Snaggletooth added.

Counterfeit looked down at the dented blaster in his hands. He had no idea this is what his alt mode was, as he was never told. And he respected Arsenal’s privacy not to ask. But knowing what he was now, his opinion and feelings didn’t change. It was just a minor detail. He was still the Same old Arnie. 

_ His cherished friend. _

His optics began to lubricate as he held the smaller mech close to his chest.

_“It’s ok now, Arnie,”_ he thought. _“We’re going home.”_

* * *

_“Oh, no, you don’t,”_ thought Radar, typing away at his station.

* * *

The Good Times was breaking through the atmosphere past the asteroid belt and entering into open space. There was an uneasy peace about the mechs on the bridge as they started to travel back to the Satellite Space Station. It had been quite a journey for all of them, and they believed in their sparks that the chaos was finally over.

_ But not yet. _

The cargo ship began to whine and creak, causing some alert notifications to sound off in front of Snaggletooth’s terminal.

_“What the hell?”_ the crocodile hissed, frantically pressing buttons and keying in command codes.

“What’s wrong?” Shortfuse asked, approaching the pilot. “Why’ve we stopped?!”

“I’m trying to figure that out,” the beastformer answered back with an annoyed tone.

As Snaggletooth was trying to figure it out, the Good Times began to shake, throwing the mechs inside a bit off balance and concerned over what was happening.

“Ohhh, _cripes,”_ Snaggletooth hissed.

“What?! What is it?!” blurted Shortfuse.

_“Look,”_ Snaggletooth said, pointing through the glass. “Look at the stars.”

“We’re going backwards...” Crowbar announced.

“We’re locked in a tractor beam,” Snaggletooth clarified. _“The bastard...”_ he cursed.

Crowbar ignored that comment. 

_ He knew who he was talking about. _

“If I try to thrust our way out of it I’ll exhaust the fuel reserves or worse, damage the engine or thrusters themselves.”

“Then what do we do?” asked Surge.

“Well, our only option is to risk some damage and hope to Primus we can make it back to that station in one piece…” said Snaggletooth.

“Unless we had an external force to break the ship out of the beam,” added Shortfuse.

_“Yeah,”_ Snaggletooth laughed. _“Got any suggestions?”_ he asked rhetorically.

“An explosion could work,” the minibot answered. “I’ll use my rockets to cover enough distance to detonate safely. That should give you enough thrust to get the hell out of here.”

Surge’s optics darted toward the medic before anyone else’s.

_“No,”_ objected the power cell sternly. “There’s gotta be another way...”

Surge looked around at Counterfeit and Crowbar, who had little to offer him aside from sad and empty looks.

“Options are limited, son. And so it time,” The nuke said to him. Shortfuse turned his helm towards Snaggletooth. “Open the hatch.”

“It’s been short, but it’s been an honor, mate,” Snaggletooth replied sorrowfully. He had only known these strangers for a brief time, but they sure were much better company than...

_“Wait!”_ Surge yelled, going over to Shortfuse who was ready to jump out into open space. He grabbed his wrist with tears clinging to his optics. _“Don’t do this,”_ Surge began, his vocalizer trying not to hitch as the tears flowed down past the rim of his visor. “There has to be another way. We need you. _I_ need you…!”

Shortfuse gave him a soft yet pained expression as he placed his hand on his shoulder kibble.

“Son, you’re a good medic. There’s not much more I could teach you. Take care of those three idiots for me while I'm gone.”

_ “Counterfeit, Crowbar!! Do something!” _

Counterfeit clutched Arsenal closer to his chest and began to cry. Things were becoming too much again and he didn’t want to think about any of it anymore. He wanted to take Arsenal and go home.

Crowbar looked down, disappointed in himself for not knowing what to do. His spark was still going through the ringer with his exchange with Radar and...he wanted to ignore the feelings of closeness that had already begun to grow between himself and the older medic.

They had all gone through so much already...

_“Tell Settie I love her,”_ was his last words to Surge, before and electric charge erupted from the hand that was resting on Surge’s shoulder, forcing the other mini to transform into his alt mode, unable to stop or go after him.

* * *

Using the rockets protruding from his arms and legs, Shortfuse flew away from the ship making a safe distance between himself and the ones he cared about. He only had one shot, and he had to make it count. His new objective was to make sure those young mechs got home safely so they could continue their lives.

Many would argue that Shortfuse also had a life to continue, but the painful reality that he harbored deep within his spark was that he had been living on borrowed time for a long time. And in those final moments before his detonation sequence went off, he thought about the person who had allowed him to live past what was his original doomed destiny.

He thought of Syringe, and exploded.

* * *

* * *

* * *

In life, we go through many things.

There are times when we’re at our highest, feeling like nothing can touch us. We are like hammers, striking against the foundation of our lives to make it ours. We create our own futures, purposes, and destinies.

But there are some times where that is not the case. The events in our lives are the hammer striking against _us,_ shaping and forging us into the people that we are today.

So while you may think you are a hammer, you may come to realize that you're just a nail.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's finished! Hammer & Nails is completed!
> 
> ...But the story isn't over yet.


End file.
